I 


I 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN: 


WITH 


OTHER  POEMS. 


BY  FELICIA  HEMANS. 


Mightier  far 

Than  strength  of  nerve  or  sinew,  or  the  sway 
Of  magic  potent  over  sun  and  star, 
Is  love,  though  oft  to  agony  distrest, 
And  though  his  favourite  seat  be  feeble  woman's  breast. 

WORDSWORTH. 

Das  ist  das  Loos  des  Schonen  auf  der  Erde ! 

SCHILLER. 


NEW-YORK: 

PUBLISHED  BY  WILLIAM  B,  GILLEV, 

No.  92  Broadway, 
1828, 


Sleight  &  George,  Printers,  Jamaica,  L.  I, 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 

ARABELLA  STUART, 7 

The  Bride  of  the  Greek  Isle, 25 

The  Switzer's  Wife, .39 

Properzia  Rossi, 49 

Gertrude,  or  Fidelity  till  death, 59 

Imelda,              65 

Edith,  a  Tale  of  the  Woods, 73 

The  Indian  City, 87 

The  Peasant  Girl  of  the  Rhone,         .         .         .         .         .101 

Indian  Woman's  Death  Song, 108 

Joan  of  Arc,  in  Rheims, 113 

Pauline, 120 

Juana, 127 

The  American  Forest  Girl, 135 

Coztanza,         .         .         . 140 

Madeline,  a  Domestic  Tale,         .     *.         .         .         .         .  148 

The  Queen  of  Prussia's  Tomh, 154 

The  Memorial  Pillar, 159 

The  Grave  of  a  Poetess, 164 

Notes  to  Records  of  Woman, 169 

MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 

The  Homes  of  England, •.  173 

The  Sicilian  Captive, '   17G 

Ivan  the  Czar, 184- 

Carolan's  Prophecy,           .         .         <         .         .         .         .  "*  191 

The  Lady  of  the  Castle, 198 

The  Mourner  for  the  Barmecides,                      -   .         .         .  204 


M275824 


or 

The  Spanish  Chapel, 212 

The  Captive  Knight, 217 

The  Kaiser's  Feast, 219 

Tasso  and  his  Sister, 225 

Ulla,  or  the  Adjuration, 230 

To  Wordsworth, 236 

A  Monarch's  Death-bed, 238 

To  the  Memory  -cf  Heber, 241 

The  Adopted  Child, 243 

Invocation, 246 

Korner  and  his  Sister,        .......  249 

An  Hour  of  Romance, 254 

A  Voyager's  Dream  of  Land, 257 

The  Effigies,     .                 261 

•  The  Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  in  New  England,          .  265 

The  Spirit's  Mysteries, 268 

The  Departed, 271 

The  Palm-tree, 275 

The  Child's  Last  Sleep, 279 

The  Sunbeam, 281 

Breathings  of  Spring,                 ^ 284 

The  Illuminated  City, 287 

The  Spells  of  Home, 290 

Roman  Girl's  Song, 292 

The  Distant  Ship, 297 

The  Birds  of  Passage, 300 

The  Graves  of  a  Household, 303 

Mozart's  Requiem, 306 

The  Image  in  Lava, 311 

The  Last  Wish, 315 

Fairy  Favours, 319 

A  Parting  Song, 322 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 


ARABELLA  STUART. 

"  THE  LADY  ARABELLA,"  as  she  has  been  frequently  entitled,  was 
descended  from  Margaret,  eldest  daughter  of  Henry  VII.  and  con- 
sequently allied  by  birth  to  Elizabeth,  as  well  as  James  I.  This 
affinity  to  the  throne  proved  the  misfortune  of  her  life,  as  the  jea- 
lousies which  it  constantly  excited  in  her  royal  relatives,  who  were 
anxious  to  prevent  her  marrying,  shut  her  out  from  the  enjoyment 
of  that  domestic  happiness  which  her  heart  appears  to  have  so  fervent- 
ly desired.  By  a  secret,  but  early  discovered  union  with  William 
Seymour,  son  of  Lord  Beauchamp,  she  alarmed  the  cabinet  of  James, 
and  the  wedded  lovers  were  immediately  placed  in  separate  con- 
finement. From  this  they  found  means  to  concert  a  romantic  plan 
of  escape ;  and  having  won  over  a  female  attendant,  by  whose  as- 
sistance she  was  disguised  in  male  attire,  Arabella,  though  faint 
from  recent  sickness  and  suffering,  stole  out  in  the  night,  and  at  last 
reached  an  appointed  spot,  where  a  boat  and  servants  were  in  wait- 
ing. She  embarked ;  and,  at  break  of  day,  a  French  vessel,  engaged 
to  receive  her,  was  discovered  and  gained.  As  Seymour,  however, 
had  not  yet  arrived,  she  was  desirous  that  the  vessel  should  lie  at 
anchor  for  him ;  but  this  wish  was  overruled  by  her  companions,  who, 
contrary  to  her  entreaties,  hoisted  sail,  "which,"  says  D'Israeli,  "  oc- 
casioned so  fatal  a  termination  to  this  romantic  adventure.  Seymour, 
indeed,  had  escaped  from  the  Tower ;— he  reached  the  wharf,  and 


8  RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 

found  his  confidential  man  waiting  with  a  boat,  and  arrived  at  Lee. 
The  time  passed  ;  the  waves  were  rising ;  Arabella  was  not  there  ; 
but  in  the  distance  he  descried  a  vessel.  Hiring  a  fisherman  to  take 
him  on  hoard,  he  discovered,  to  his  grief,  on  hailing  it,  that  it  was  not 
the  French  ship  charged  with  his  Arabella ;  in  despair  and  confusion  he 
found  another  ship  from  Newcastle,  which  for  a  large  sum  altered  its 
course,  and  landed  him  in  Flanders." — Arabella,  meantime,  while 
imploring  her  attendants  to  linger,  and  earnestly  looking  out  for  the 
expected  boat  of  her  husband,  was  overtaken  in  Calais  Roads  by 
a  vessel  in  the  King's  service,  and  brought  back  to  a  captivity,  under 
the  suffering  of  which  her  mind  and  constitution  gradually  sank. — 
"What  passed  in  that  dreadful  imprisonment,  cannot  perhaps  be 
recovered  for  authentic  history, — but  enough  is  known ;  that  her 
mind  grew  impaired,  that  she  finally  lost  her  reason,  and,  if  the  du- 
ration of  her  imprisonment  was  short,  that  it  was  only  terminated  by 
her  death.  Some  effusions,  often  begun  and  never  ended,  written 
and  erased,  incoherent  and  rational,  yet  remain  among  her  papers." — 

DISRAELI'S  Curiosities  of  Literature. The  following  poem,  meant 

as  some  record  of  her  fate,  and  the  imagined  fluctuations  of  her  thoughts 
and  feelings,  is  supposed  to  commence  during  the  time  of  her  first 
imprisonment,  while  her  mind  was  yet  buoyed  up  by  the  conscious- 
ness of  Seymour's  affection,  and  the  cherished  hope  of  eventual 
deliverance. 


ARABELLA    STUART. 


ARABELLA  STUART. 


And  is  not  love  in  vain, 
Torture  enough  without  a  living  tomb  ? 

BYRON. 
Fennossi  al  fin  il  cor  che  balzo  tanto. 

PlNDEMONTE, 


I. 

'TWAS  but  a  dream  ! — I  saw  the  stag  leap  free, 

Under  the  boughs  where  early  birds  were  singing. 
I  stood,  o'ershadow'd  by  the  greenwood  tree, 

And  heard,  it  seemed,  a  sudden  bugle  ringing 
Far  thro*  a  royal  forest :  then  the  fawn 
Shot,  like  a  gleam  of  light,  from  grassy  lawn 
To  secret  covert ;  and  the  smooth  turf  shook, 
And  lilies  quiver'd  by  the  glade's  lone  brook, 


ill  RECORDS    OP    WOMAN. 

And  young  leaves  trembled,  as,  in  fleet  career, 
A  princely  band,  with  horn,  and  hound,  and  spear, 
Like  a  rich  masque  swept  forth.     I  saw  the  dance 
Of  their  white  plumes,  that  bore  a  silvery  glance 
Into  the  deep  wood's  heart ;  and  all  pass'd  by, 
Save  one — I  met  the  smile  of  one  clear  eye, 
Flashing  out  joy  to  mine. — Yes,  thou  wert  there, 
Seymour !  a  soft  wind  blew  the  clustering  hair 
Back  from  thy  gallant  brow,  as  thou  didst  rein 
Thy  courser,  turning  from  that  gorgeous  train, 
And  fling,  methought,  thy  hunting  spear  away, 
And,  lightly  graceful  in  thy  green  array, 
Bound  to  my  side  ;  and  we,  that  met  and  parted, 

Ever  in  dread  of  some  dark  watchful  power, 
Won  back  to  childhood's  trust,  and,  fearless-hearted, 

Blent  the  glad  fulness  of  our  thoughts  that  hour, 
Ev'n  like  the  mingling  of  sweet  streams,  beneath 
Dim  woven  leaves,  and  midst  the  floating  breath 
Of  hidden  forest  flowers. 


ARABELLA    STUART.  11 

II. 

'Tis  past! — I  wake, 
A  captive,  and  alone,  and  far  from  thee, 
My  love  and  friend !    Yet  fostering,  for  thy  sake, 

A  quenchless  hope  of  happiness  to  be ; 
And  feeling  still  my  woman's  spirit  strong, 
In  the  deep  faith  which  lifts  from  earthly  wrong, 
A  heavenward  glance.     I  know,  I  know  our  love 
Shall  yet  call  gentle  angels  from  above, 
By  its  undying  fervour ;  and  prevail, 
Sending  a  breath,  as  of  the  spring's  first  gale, 
Thro'  hearts  now  cold  ;  and,  raising  its  bright  face, 
With  a  free  gush  of  sunny  tears  erase 
The  characters  of  anguish ;  in  this  trust, 
I  bear,  I  strive,  I  bow  not  to  the  dust, 
That  I  may  bring  thee  back  no  faded  form, 
No  bosom  chilPd  and  blighted  by  the  storm, 
But  all  my  youth's  first  treasures,  when  we  meet, 
Making  past  sorrow,  by  communion,  sweet. 


12  RECORDS    OF    WOMAN. 

III. 

And  thou  too  art  in  bonds  ! — yet  droop  thou  not. 
Oh,  my  belov'd  ! — there  is  one  hopeless  lot, 
But  one,  and  that  not  ours.     Beside  the  dead 
TJiere  sits  the  grief  that  mantles  up  its  head, 
Loathing  the  laughter  and  proud  pomp  of  light. 
When  darkness,  from  the  vainly-doting  sight, 
Covers  its  beautiful ! *   If  thou  wert  gone 

To  the  grave's  bosom,  with  thy  radiant  brow, — 
If  thy  deep-thrilling  voice,  with  that  low  tone 

Of  earnest  tenderness,  which  now,  ev'n  now, 
Seems  floating  thro'  my  sbul,  were  music  taken 
For  ever  from  this  world, — oh !  thus  forsaken, 
Could  I  bear  on  1 — thou  liv'st,  thou  liv'st,  thou'rt  mine  ! 
With  this  glad  thought  I  make  my  heart  a  shrine, 
And  by  the  lamp  which  quenchless  there  shall  burn. 
Sit,  a  lone  watcher  for  the  day's  return. 


ARABELLA  STUART. 
IV, 

And  lo !  the  joy  that  cometh  with  the  morning, 

Brightly  victorious  o'er  the  hours  of  care ! 
I  have  not  watch'd  in  vain,  serenely  scorning 

The  wild  and  busy  whispers  of  despair  ! 
Thou  has  sent  tidings,  as  of  heaven. — I  wait 

The  hour,  the  sign,  for  blessed  flight  to  thee< 
Oh !  for  the  skylark's  wing  that  seeks  its  mate 

As  a  star  shoots ! — but  on  the  breezy  sea 
We  shall  meet  soon. — To  think  of  such  an  hour  ! 

Will  not  my  heart,  o'erburden'd  by  its  bliss, 
Faint  and  give  way  within  me,  as  a  flower 

Borne  down  and  perishing  by  noontide's  kiss  ? 
Yet  shall  I  fear  that  lot?— the  perfect  rest, 
The  full  deep  joy  of  dying  on  thy  breast, 
After  long-suffering  won  ?     So  rich  a  close 
Too  seldom  crowns  with  peace  affection's  woes. 


14  RECORDS    OF 

T. 

Sunset ! — I  tell  each  moment — from  the  skies 
The  last  red  splendour  floats  along  my  wall, 

Like  a  king's  banner ! — Now  it  melts,  it  dies ! 
I  see  one  star — I  hear — 'twas  not  the  call, 

Th'  expected  voice  ;  my  quick  heart  throbb'd  too  soon. 

I  must  keep  vigil  till  yon  rising  moon 

Shower  down  less  golden  light.    Beneath  her  beam 

Thro'  my  lone  lattice  pour'd,  I  sit  and  dream 

Of  summer  lands  afar,  where  holy  love, 

Under  the  vine,  or  in  the  citron-grove, 

May  breathe  from  terror. 

Now  the  night  grows  deep, 

And  silent  as  its  clouds,  and  full  of  sleep. 

I  hear  my  veins  beat. — Hark !  a  bell's  slow  chime. 

My  heart  strikes  with  it. — Yet  again — 'tis  time! 

A  step ! — a  voice ! — or  but  a  rising  breeze  ? 

Hark ! — haste  ! — I  come,  to  meet  thee  on  the  seas. 


ARABELLA   STUART,  15 

VI. 

Now  never  more,  oh !  never,  in  the  worth 
Of  its  pure  cause,  let  sorrowing  love  on  earth 
Trust  fondly — never  more ! — the  hope  is  crush' d 
That  lit  my  life,  the  voice  within  me  hush'd 
That  spoke  sweet  oracles  ;  and  I  return 
To  lay  my  youth,  as  in  a  burial-urn, 
Where  sunshine  may  not  find  it. — All  is  lost ! 
No  tempest  met  our  barks — no  billow  toss'd  ; 
Yet  were  they  sever'd,  ev'n  as  we  must  be, 
That  so  have  lov'd,  so  striven  our  hearts  to  free 
From  their  close-coiling  fate  !     In  vain — in  vain ! 
The  dark  links  meet,  and  clasp  themselves  again, 
And  press  out  life. — Upon  the  deck  I  stood, 
And  a  white  sail  came  gliding  o'er  the  flood, 
Like  some  proud  bird  of  ocean  ;  then  mine  eye 
Strained  out,  one  moment  earlier  to  descry 
The  form  it  ached  for,  and  the  bark's  careey 
Seem'd  slow  to  that  fond  yearning  :  It  drew  near, 


16  RECORDS    OF    WOMAN. 

Fraught  with  our  foes  ! — What  boots  it  to  recall 
The  strife,  the  tears  ?     Once  more  a  prison-wall 
Shuts  the  green  hills  and  woodlands  from  my  sight, 
And  joyous  glance  of  waters  to  the  light, 
And  thee,  my  Seymour,  thee ! 

I  will  not  sink ! 
Thou,  tliou  hast  rent  the  heavy  chain  that  bound 

thee; 
And  this  shall  be  my  strength — the  joy  to  think 

That  thou  mayst  wander  with  heaven's  breath  around 

thee ; 

And  all  the  laughing  sky !     This  thought  shall  yet 
Shine  o'er  my  heart,  a  radiant  amulet, 
Guarding  it  from  despair.     Thy  bonds  are  broken, 
And  unto  me,  I  know,  thy  true  love's  token 
Shall  one  day  be  deliverance,  tho'  the  years 
Lie  dim  between,  o'erhung  with  mists  of  tears. 


ARABELLA    STUART.  17 

VII. 

My  friend,  my  friend !  where  art  thou  ?     Day  by  day, 
Gliding,  like  some  dark  mournful  stream,  away, 
My  silent  youth  flows  from  me.     Spring,  the  while, 

Comes  and  rains  beauty  on  the  kindling  boughs 
Round  hall  and  hamlet ;  Summer,  with  her  smile, 

Fills  the  green  forest ;— young  hearts  breathe  their 

vows  ; 

Brothers  long  parted  meet ;  fair  children  rise 
Round  the  glad  board  ;  Hope  laughs  from  loving  eyes: 
All  this  is  in  the  world ! — These  joys  lie  sown, 
The  dew  of  every  path — On  one  alone 
Their  freshness  may  not  fall — the  stricken  deer, 
Dying  of  thirst  with  all  the  waters  near. 

VIII. 

Ye  are  from  dingle  and  fresh  glade,  ye  flowers  ' 
By  some  kind  hand  to  cheer  my  dungeon  sent ; 

O'er  you  the  oak  shed  down  the  summer  showers, 
And  the  lark's  nest  was  where  your  bright  cups  bent, 

2* 


RECORDS    OF   WOMAN. 

Quivering  to  breeze  and  rain-drop,  like  the  sheen 
Of  twilight  stars.    On  you  Heaven's  eye  hath  been, 
Thro'  the  leaves,  pouring  its  dark  sultry  blue 
Into  your  glowing  hearts  ;  the  bee  to  you 
Hath  murmur'd,  and  the  rill. — My  soul  grows  faint 
With  passionate  yearning,  as  its  quick  dreams  paint 
Your  haunts  by  dell  and  stream, — the  green,  the  free, 
The  full  of  all  sweet  sound, — the  shut  from  me ! 

IX. 

There  went  a  swift  bird  singing  past  my  cell — 
O  Love  and  Freedom !  ye  are  lovely  things ! 
With  you  the  peasant  on  the  hills  may  dwell, 

And  by  the  streams  ;  but  I — the  blood  of  kings, 
A  proud,  unmingling  river,  thro'  my  veins 
Flows  in  lone  brightness, — and  its  gifts  are  chains ! 
Kings ! — I  had  silent  visions  of  deep  bliss, 
Leaving  their  thrones  far  distant,  and  for  this 


ARABELLA   STUART.  19 

I  am  cast  under  their  triumphal  car, 

An  insect  to  be  crush'd. — Oh !  Heaven  is  far, — 

Earth  pitiless ! 

Dost  thou  forget  me,  Seymour  ?     I  am  prov'd 

So  long,  so  sternly !  Seymour,  my  belov'd  ! 

There  are  such  tales  of  holy  marvels  done 

By  strong  affection,  of  deliverance  won 

Thro'  its  prevailing  power !     Are  these  things  told 

Till  the  young  weep  with  rapture,  and  the  old 

Wonder,  yet  dare  not  doubt, — and  thou,  oh !  thou, 

Dost  thou  forget  me  in  my  hope's  decay  1 — 
Thou  canst  not ! — thro'  the  silent  night,  ev'n  now, 

I,  that  need  prayer  so  much,  awake  and  pray 
Still  first  for  thee. — Oh !  gentle,  gentle  friend  ! 
How  shall  I  bear  this  anguish  to  the  end  ? 

Aid ! — comes  there  yet  no  aid  1 — the  voice  of  blood 
Passes  Heaven's  gate,  ev'n  ere  the  crimson  flood 


20  RECORDS   OP   WOMAN. 

Sinks  thro'  the  greensward  ! — is  there  not  a  cry 

From  the  wrung  heart,  of  power,  thro'  agony, 

To  pierce  the  clouds  ?  Hear,  Mercy !  hear  me  !  None 

That  bleed  and  weep  beneath  the  smiling  sun, 

Have   heavier    cause ! — yet   hear ! — my    soul    grows 

dark — 

"Who  hears  the  last  shriek  from  the  sinking  bark, 
On  the  mid  seas,  and  with  the  storm  alone, 
And  bearing  to  th'  abyss,  unseen,  unknown, 
Its  freight  of  human  hearts  ? — th'  o'ermastering  wave ! 
Who  shall  tell  how  it  rush'd — and  none  to  save  ? 

Thou  hast  forsaken  me!     I  feel,  I  know, 
There  would  be  rescue  if  this  were  not  so. 
Thou'rt  at  the  chase,  thou'rt  at  the  festive  board, 
Thou'rt  where  the  red  wine  free  and  high  is  pour'd, 
Thou'rt  where  the  dancers  meet ! — a  magic  glass 
Is  set  within  my  soul,  and  proud  shapes  pass, 
Flushing  it  o'er  with  pomp  from  bower  and  hall  ;^- 
I  see  one  shadow,  stateliest  there  of  all, — 


ARABELLA    STUART. 

Thine ! — What  dost  thou  amidst  the  bright  and  fair, 
Whispering  light  words,  and  mocking  my  despair  ? 
It  is  not  well  of  thee  ! — my  love  was  more 
Than  fiery  song  may  breathe,  deep  thought  explore, 
And  there  thou  smilest,  while  my  heart  is  dying, 
With  all  its  blighted  hopes  around  it  lying  ; 
Ev'n  thou,  on  whom  they  hung  their  last  green  leaf- 
Yet  smile,  smile  on!  too  bright  art  thou  for  grief! 

Death ! — what,  is  death  a  lock'd  and  treasur'd  thing, 

Guarded  by  swords  of  fire  ?2  a  hidden  spring, 

A  fabled  fruit,  that  I  should  thus  endure, 

As  if  the  world  within  me  held  no  cure  ? 

Wherefore  not  spread  free  wings — 'Heaven,  Heaven 

controul 

These  thoughts — they  rush — I  look  into  my  soul 
As  down  a  gulf,  and  tremble  at  th'  array 
Of  fierce  forms  crowding  it !    Give  strength  to  pray. 
So  shall  their  dark  host    as-. 


RECORDS    OF   WOMAN. 

The  storm  is  still'd. 

Father  in  Heaven !  Thou,  only  thou,  canst  sound 
The  heart's  great  deep,  with  floods  of  anguish  fill'd, 

For  human  line  too  fearfully  profound. 
Therefore,  forgive,  my  Father  !  if  Thy  child, 
Rock'd  on  its  heaving  darkness,  hath  grown  wild, 
And  sinn'd  in  her  despair  !     It  well  may  be, 
That  Thou  wouldst  lead  my  spirit  back  to  Thee, 
By  the  crush'd  hope  too  long  on  this  world  pour'd, 
The  stricken  love  which  hath  perchance  ador'd 
A  mortal  in  Thy  place !     Now  let  me  strive 
With  Thy  strong  arm  no  more !     Forgive,  forgive  ! 
Take  me  to  peace  ! 

And  peace  at  last  is  nigh. 

A  sign  is  on  my  brow,  a  token  sent 
Th'  o'erwearied  dust,  from  home  :  no  breeze  flits  by, 

But  calls  me  with  a  strange  sweet  whisper,  blent 
Of  many  mysteries. 


ARABELLA    STUART.  23 

Hark  !  the  warning  tone 
Deepens — its  word  is  Death.     Alone,  alone, 
And  sad  in  youth,  but  chasten'd,  I  depart, 
Bowing  to  heaven.     Yet,  yet  my  woman's  heart 
Shall  wake  a  spirit  and  a  power  to  bless, 
Ev'n  in  this  hour's  o'ershadowing  fearfulness, 
Thee,  its  first  love  ! — oh !  tender  still,  and  true ! 
Be  it  forgotten  if  mine  anguish  threw 
Drops  from  its  bitter  fountain  on  thy  name, 
Tho'  but  a  moment. 

Now,  with  fainting  frame, 
With  soul  just  lingering  on  the  flight  begun, 
To  bind  for  thee  its  last  dim  thoughts  in  one, 
I  bless  thee  !     Peace  be  on  thy  noble  head, 
Years  of  bright  fame,  when  I  am  with  the  dead  ! 
I  bid  this  prayer  survive  me,  and  retain 
Its  might,  again  to  bless  thee,  and  again  ! 
Thou  hast  been  gather'd  into  my  dark  fate 
Too  much ;  too  long,  for  my  sake,  desolate 


RECORDS   OP   WOMAN. 

Hath  been  thine  exiled  youth ;  but  now  take  back, 
From  dying  hands,  thy  freedom,  and  re-track 
(After  a  few  kind  tears  for  her  whose  days 
Went  out  in  dreams  of  thee)  the  sunny  ways 
Of  hope,  and  find  thou  happiness  !     Yet  send, 
Ev'n  then,  in  silent  hours  a  thought,  dear  friend  ! 
Down  to  my  voiceless  chamber ;  for  thy  love 
Hath  been  to  me  all  gifts  of  earth  above, 
Tho'  bought  with  burning  tears  !     It  is  the  sting 
Of  death  to  leave  that  vainly-precious  thing 
In  this  cold  world  !     What  were  it  then,  if  thou, 
With  thy  fond  eyes,  wert  gazing  on  me  now  ? 
Too  keen  a  pang  ! — Farewell !  and  yet  once  more, 
Farewell ! — the  passion  of  long  years  I  pour 
Into  that  word  :  thou  hear'st  not, — but  the  wo 
And  fervour  of  its  tones  may  one  day  flow 
To  thy  heart's  holy  place ;  there  let  them  dwell — 
We  shall  o'ersweep  the  grave  to  meet — Farewell ! 


THE  BRIDE  OF  THE  GREEK  ISLE, 


THE  BRIDE  OF  THE  GREEK  ISLE.* 


Fear !— I'm  a  Greek,  and  how  should  I  fear  death  ? 
A  slave,  and  wherefore  should  I  dread  my  freedom  ? 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

I  will  not  live  degraded. 

Sardanapalus. 


COME  from  the  woods  with  the  citron-flowers, 
Come  with  your  lyres  for  the  festal  hours, 
Maids  of  bright  Scio !    They  came,  and  the  breeze 
Bore  their  sweet  songs  o'er  the  Grecian  seas  ; — 
They  came,  and  Eudora  stood  rob'd  and  crown'd, 
The  bride  of  the  morn,  with  her  train  around. 

*  Founded  on  a  circumstance  related  in  the  Second  Series  of  the 
Curiosities  of  Literature,  and  forming  part  of  a  picture  in  the 
"Painted  Biography"  there  described. 


26  RECORDS   OF   WOMAJS- 

Jewels  flash' d  out  from  her  braided  hair, 
Like  starry  dews  midst  the  roses  there  ; 
Pearls  on  her  bosom  quivering  shone, 
Heav'd  by  her  heart  thro'  its  golden  zone  : 
But  a  brow,  as  those  gems  of  the  ocean  pale, 
Gleam'd  from  beneath  her  transparent  veil ; 
Changeful  and  faint  was  her  fair  cheek's  hue, 
Tho'  clear  as  a  flower  which  the  light  looks  through ; 
And  the  glance  of  her  dark  resplendent  eye, 
For  the  aspect  of  woman  at  times  too  high, 
Lay  floating  in  mists,  which  the  troubled  stream 
Of  the  soul  sent  up  o'er  its  fervid  beam. 

She  look'd  on  the  vine  at  her  father's  door, 
Like  one  that  is  leaving  his  native  shore  ; 
She  hung  o'er  the  myrtle  once  call'd  her  own, 
As  it  greenly  wav'd  by  the  threshold  stone ; 
She  turn'd — and  her  mother's  gaze  brought  back 
Each  hue  of  her  childhood's  faded  track. 


THE  BRIDE  OF  THE  GIjEEK  ISLE.  27 

Oh !  hush  the  song,  and  let  her  tears 

Flow  to  the  dream  of  her  early  years  ! 

Holy  and  pure  are  the  drops  that  fall 

When  the  young  bride  goes  from  her  father's  hall ; 

She  goes  unto  love  yet  untried  and  new, 

She  parts  from  love  which  hath  still  been  true  ; 

Mute  be  the  song  and  the  choral  strain, 

Till  her  heart's  deep  well-spring  is  clear  again ! 

She  wept  on  her  mother's  faithful  breast, 

Like  a  babe  that  sobs  itself  to  rest ; 

She  wept — yet  laid  her  hand  awhile 

In  his  that  waited  her  dawning  smile, 

Her  soul's  affianced,  nor  cherish'd  less 

For  the  gush  of  nature's  tenderness ! 

She  lifted  her  graceful  head  at  last — 

The  choking  swell  of  her  heart  was  past ; 

And  her  lovely  thoughts  from  their  cells  found  way 

In  the  sudden  flow  of  a  plaintive  lay.3 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 

THE  BRIDE'S  FAREWELL. 

Why  do  I  weep  ? — to  leave  the  vine 

Whose  clusters  o'er  me  bend, — 
The  myrtle-^yet,  oh !  call  it  mine ! — 

The  flowers  I  lov'd  to  tend. 
A  thousand  thoughts  of  all  things  dear, 

Like  shadows  o'er  me  sweep, 
I  leave  my  sunny  childhood  here, 

Oh,  therefore  let  me  weep  ! 

I  leave  thee,  sister !  we  have  play'd 

Thro'  many  a  joyous  hour, 
Where  the  silvery  green  of  the  olive  shade 

Hung  dim  o'er  fount  and  bower. 
Yes,  thou  and  I,  by  stream,  by  shore, 

In  song,  in  prayer,  in  sleep, 
Have  been  as  we  may  be  no  more — 

Kind  sister,  let  me  weep  ! 


THE  BRIDE  OF  THE  GREEK  ISLE. 

i  leave  thee,  father  !     Eve's  bright  moon 

Must  now  light  other  feet, 
With  the  gather'd  grapes,  and  the  lyre  in  tune, 

Thy  homeward  step  to  greet. 
_    Thou  in  whose  voice,  to  bless  thy  child, 

Lay  tones  of  love  so  deep, 
Whose  eye  o'er  all  my  youth  hath  smiled — 

I  leave  thee  !  let  me  weep  ! 

Mother !  I  leave  thee  !  on  thy  breast, 

Pouring  out  joy  and  wo, 
I  have  found  that  holy  place  of  rest 

Still  changeless, — yet  I  go  ! 
Lips,  that  have  lull'd  me  with  your  strain, 

Eyes,  that  have  watch'd  my  sleep  ! 
Will  earth  give  love  like  yours  again  ? 

Sweet  mother  !  let  me  weep  ! 

And  like  a  slight  young  tree,  that  throws 

The  weight  of  rain  from  its  drooping  boughs, 
3* 


RECORDS    OP  WOMAN. 

Once  more  she  wept.     But  a  changeful  thing 
Is  the  human  heart,  as  a  mountain  spring, 
That  works  its  way,  thro'  the  torrent's  foam, 
To  the  bright  pool  near  it,  the  lily's  home  ! 
It  is  well ! — the  cloud,  on  her  soul  that  lay, 
Hath  melted  in  glittering  drops  away. 
Wake  again,  mingle,  sweet  flute  and  lyre ! 
She  turns  to  her  lover,  she  leaves  her  sire. 
Mother  !  on  earth  it  must  still  be  so, 
Thou  rearest  the  lovely  to  see  them  go  ! 

They  are  moving  onward,  the  bridal  throng, 

Ye  may  track  their  way  by  the  swells  of  song  ; 

Ye  may  catch  thro'  the  foliage  their  white  robes'  gleam, 

Like  a  swan  midst  the  reeds  of  a  shadowy  stream. 

Their  arms  bear  up  garlands,  their  gliding  tread 

Is  over  the  deep-vein'd  violet's  bed  ; 

They  have  light  leaves  around  them,  blue  skies  above, 

An  arch  for  the  triumph  of  youth  and  love ! 


THE  BRIDE  OF  THE  GREEK  ISLE  31 

II. 

Still  and  sweet  was  the  home  that  stood 
In  the  flowering  depths  of  a  Grecian  wood, 
With  the  soft  green  light  o'er  its  low  roof  spread, 
As  if  from  the  glow  of  an  emerald  shed, 
Pouring  thro'  lime-leaves  that  mingled  on  high, 
Asleep  in  the  silence  of  noon's  clear  sky. 
Citrons  amidst  then:  dark  foliage  glow'd, 
Making  a  gleam  round  the  lone  abode  ; 
Laurels  o'erhung  it,  whose  faintest  shiver 
Scatter'd  out  rays  like  a  glancing  river  ; 
Stars  of  the  jasmine  its  pillars  crown'd, 
Vine-stalks  its  lattice  and  walls  had  bound, 
And  brightly  before  it  a  fountain's  play 
Flung  showers  thro'  a  thicket  of  glossy  bay, 
To  a  cypress  which  rose  in  that  flashing  rain, 
Like  one  tall  shaft  of  some  fallen/ane. 

And  thither  lanthis  had  brought  his  bride, 
And  the  guests  were  met  by  that  fountain-side ; 


32  RECORDS    OF 

They  lifted  the  veil  from  Eudora's  face, 

It  smiled  out  softly  in  pensive  grace, 

With  lips  of  love,  and  a  brow  serene, 

Meet  for  the  soul  of  the  deep  wood-scene. — 

Bring  wine,  bring  odours  ! — the  board  is  spread — 

Bring  roses  !  a  chaplet  for  every  head  ! 

The  wine-cups  foam'd,  and  the  rose  was  showcr'd 

On  the  young  and  fair  from  the  world  embower'd, 

The  sun  look'd  not  on  them  in  that  sweet  shade, 

The  winds  amid  scented  boughs  were  laid  ; 

But  there  came  by  fits,  thro7  some  wavy  tree, 

A  sound  and  a  gleam  of  the  moaning  sea. 

Hush  !  be  still ! — was  that  no  more 
Than  the  murmur  from  me  shore  ? 
Silence ! — did  thick  rain-drops  beat 
On  the  grass  like  trampling  feet  ? — 
Fling  down  the  goblet,  and  draw  the  sword ! 
The  groves  are  filled  with  a  pirate-horde  ! 


1  HE  BRIDE  OP  THE  GREEK  ISLE.  33 

Thro'  the  dim  olives  their  sabres  shine  ; — 
Now  must  the  red  blood  stream  for  wine ! 

The  youths  from  the  banquet  to  battle  sprang, 

The  woods  with  the  shriek  of  the  maidens  rang ; 

Under  the  golden-fruited  boughs 

There  were  flashing  poniards,  and  darkening  brows, 

Footsteps,  o'er  garland  and  lyre  that  fled  ; 

And  the  dying  soon  on  a  greensward  bed. 

Eudora,  Eudora !  thou  dost  not  fly  !— 

She  saw  but  lanthis  before  her  lie, 

With  the  blood  from  his  breast  in  a  gushing  flow. 

Like  a  child's  large  tears  in  its  hour  of  wo, 

And  a  gathering  film  in  his  lifted  eye, 

That  sought  his  young  bride  out  mournfully.— 

She  knelt  down  beside  him,  her  arms  she  wound, 

Like  tendrils,  his  drooping  neck  around, 

As  if  the  passion  of  that  fond  grasp 

Might  chain  in  life  with  its  ivy-clasp. 


34  RECORDS    OF 

But  they  tore  her  thence  in  her  wild  despair. 
The  sea's  fierce  rovers — they  left  him  there ; 
They  left  to  the  fountain  a  dark-red  vein, 
And  on  the  wet  violets  a  pile  of  slain, 
And  a  hush  of  fear  thro'  the  summer-grove, — 
So  clos'd  the  triumph  of  youth  and  love ! 

in. 

Gloomy  lay  the  shore  that  night, 
When  the  moon,  with  sleeping  light, 
Bath'd  each  purple  Sciote  hill, — 
Gloomy  lay  the  shore,  and  still. 
O'er  the  wave  no  gay  guitar 
Sent  its  floating  music  far ; 
No  glad  sound  of  dancing  feet 
Woke,  the  starry  hours  to  greet. 
But  a  voice  of  mortal  wo, 
In  its  changes  wild  or  low, 
Thro'  the  midnight's  blue  repose. 
From  the  sea-beat  rocks  arose. 


THE  BRIDE  OF  THE  GREEK  ISLE.  35 

As  Eudora's  mother  stood 
Gazing  o'er  th'  Egean  flood, 
With  a  fix'd  and  straining  eye- 
On  !  was  the  spoilers'  vessel  nigh  ? 
Yes  !  there,  becalrn'd  in  silent  sleep, 
Dark  and  alone  on  a  breathless  deep, 
On  a  sea  of  molten  silver  dark, 
Brooding  it  frown'd  that  evil  bark  ! 
There  its  broad  pennon  a  shadow  cast, 
Moveless  and  black  from  the  tall  still  mast, 
And  the  heavy  sound  of  its  flapping  sail, 
Idly  and  vainly  wooed  the  gale. 
Hush'd  was  all  else — had  ocean's  breast 
Rock'd  e'en  Eudora  that  hour  to  rest  ? 

To  rest  ? — the  waves  tremble ! — what  piercing  cry 
Bursts  from  the  heart  of  the  ship  on  high  ? 
What  light  through  the  heavens,  in  a  sudden  spire, 
Shoots  from  the  deck  up  ?  Fire  !  'tis  fire  ! 


6  ORDS    OF   WOMAN. 

There  are  wild  forms  hurrying  to  and  fro. 
Seen  darkly  clear  on  that  lurid  glow  ; 
There  are  shout,  and  signal-gun,  and  call, 
And  the  dashing  of  water, — but  fruitless  all ! 
Man  may  not  fetter,  nor  ocean  tame 
The  might  and  wrath  of  the  rushing  flame  ! 
It  hath  twined  the  mast  like  a  glittering  snake. 
That  coils  up  a  tree  from  a  dusky  brake  ; 
It  hath  touch'd  the  sails,  and  their  canvass  rolls 
Away  from  its  breath  into  shrivell'd  scrolls  ; 
It  hath  taken  the  flag's  high  place  in  air, 
And  redden'd  the  stars  with  its  wavy  glare, 
And  sent  out  bright  arrows,  and  soar'd  in  glee, 
To  a  burning  mount  midst  the  moonlight  sea. 
The  swimmers  are  plunging  from  stern  and  prow- 
Eudora,  Eudora !  where,  where  art  thou  ? 
The  slave  and  his  master  alike  are  gone. — • 
Mother !  who  stands  on  the  deck  alone  ? 
The  child  of  thy  bosom  ! — and  lo !  a  brand 
Blazing  up  high  in  her  lifted  hand ! 


THE  BRIDE  OF  THE  GREEK  ISLE.  37 

And  her  veil  flung  back,  and  her  free  dark  hair 

Sway'd  by  the  flames  as  they  rock  and  flare, 

And  her  fragile  form  to  its  loftiest  height 

Dilated,  as  if  by  the  spirit's  might, 

And  her  eye  with  an  eagle-gladness  fraught, — 

Oh !  could  this  work  be  of  woman  wrought  ? 

Yes  !  'twas  her  deed ! — by  that  haughty  smile 

It  was  her's ! — She  hath  kindled  her  funeral  pile  ! 

Never  might  shame  on  that  bright  head  be, 

Her  blood  was  the  Greek's,  and  hath  made  her  free. 

Proudly  she  stands,  like  an  Indian  bride 

On  the  pyre  with  the  holy  dead  beside  ; 

But  a  shriek  from  her  mother  hath  caught  her  ear, 

As  the  flames  to  her  marriage-robe  draw  near, 

And  starting,  she  spreads  her  pale  arms  in  vain 

To  the  form  they  must  never  infold  again. 


One  moment  more,  and  her  hands  are  clasp'd, 

Fallen  is  the  torch  they  had  wildly  grasp'd- 
4 


38  RECORDS    OF    WOMAN. 

Her  sinking  knee  unto  Heaven  is  bow'd, 
And  her  last  look  rais'd  thro'  the  smoke's  dim  shroud, 
And  her  lips  as  in  prayer  for  her  pardon  move — 
Now  the  night  gathers  o'er  youth  and  love  !* 


*  Originally  published,  as  well  as  several  other  of  these  Records, 
in  the  Aho  Monthly  Magazine, 


THE  SWITZER'S  WIFE. 

Werner  Stauffacher,  one  of  the  three  confederates  of  the 
field  of  Grutli,  had  been  alarmed  by  the  envy  with  which 
the  Austrian  Bailiff,  Landenberg,  had  noticed  the  appear- 
ance of  wealth  and  comfort  which  distinguished  his  dwell- 
ing. It  was  not,  however,  until  roused  by  the  entreaties 
of  his  wife,  a  woman  who  seems  to  have  been  of  an  heroic 
spirit,  that  he  was  induced  to  deliberate  with  his  friends 
upon  the  measures  by  which  Switzerland  was  finally  de- 
livered. 


THE    SWtTZEI!4  41 


THE  SWITZEK'S  WIFE. 


Nor  look  nor  tone  revealeth  aught 
Save  woman's  quietness  of  thought ; 
And  yet  around  her  is  a  light 
Of  inward  majesty  and  might. 

M.  J.  J. 

*  *  *  *  * 

VVer  solch  ein  herz  an  seinen  Busen  druckt, 
Der  kann  fur  herd  und  hof  mit  freuden  fechten. 

WILLHOLM  TELL. 


IT  was  the  time  when  children  bound  to  meet 
Their  father's  homeward  step  from  field  or  hill, 

And  when  the  herd's  returning  bells  are  sweet 
In  the  Swiss  valleys,  and  the  lakes  grow  still, 

And  the  last  note  of  that  wild  horn  swells  by, 

Which  haunts  the  exile's  heart  with  melody. 

4* 

'        | 


RECORDS    OF    WOV. 

And  lovely  smil'd  full  many  an  Alpine  home. 

Touch'd  with  the  crimson  of  the  dying  hour, 
Which  lit  its  low  roof  by  the  torrent's  foam, 

And  pierced  its  lattice  thro'  the  vine-hung  bower ; 
But  one,  the  loveliest  o'er  the  land  that  rose, 
Then  first  look'd  mournful  in  its  green  repose. 

For  Werner  sat  beneath  the  linden-tree, 

That  sent  its  lulling  whispers  through  his  door, 

Ev'n  as  man  sits  whose  heart  alone  would  be 
With  some  deep  care,  and  thus  can  find  no  more 

T h'  accustom'd  joy  in  all  which  evening  brings. 

Gathering  a  household  with  her  quiet  wings. 

His  wife  stood  hush'd  before  him, — sad,  yet  mild 
In  her  beseeching  mien  ; — he  mark'd  it  not. 

The  silvery  laughter  of  his  bright-hair'd  child 

Rang  from  the  greensward  round  the  shelterd  spot, 

15ut  seem'd  unheard  ;  until  at  last  the  boy 

Rais'd  from  his  heap'd  up  flowers  a  glance  of  joy, 


THE  SWITZER'S  WIFE. 

And  met  his  father's  face  :  but  then  a  change 
Pass'd  swiftly  o'er  the  brow  of  infant  glee, 

And  a  quick  sense  of  something  dimly  strange 
Brought  him  from  play  to  stand  beside  the  knee 

So  often  climb'd,  and  lift  his  loving  eyes 

That  shone  through  clouds  of  sorrowful  surprise. 

Then  the  proud  bosom  of  the  strong  man  shook  ; 

But  tenderly  his  babe's  fair  mother  laid 
Her  hand  on  his,  and  with  a  pleading  look, 

Thro'  tears  half  quivering,  o'er  him  bent,  and  said, 
"  What  grief,  dear  friend,  hath  made  thy  heart  its  prey, 
That  thou  shouldst  turn  thee  from  our  love  away  ? 

"  It  is  too  sad  to  see  thee  thus,  my  friend ! 

Mark'st  thou  the  wonder  on  thy  boy's  fair  brow, 
Missing  the  smile  from  thine  ?     Oh  !  cheer  thee  !  bend 

To  his  soft  arms,  unseal  thy  thoughts  e'en  now ! 
Thou  dost  not  kindly  to  withhold  the  share 
Of  tried  affection  in  thy  secret  care." 


I 


•M  RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 

He  looked  up  into  that  sweet  earnest  face, 
But  sternly,  mournfully :  not  yet  the  band 

Was  loosen'd  from  his  soul ;  its  inmost  place 
Not  yet  unveil'd  by  love's  o'ermastering  hand. 

"  Speak  low  1"  he  cried,  and  pointed  where  on  high 

The  white  Alps  glitter'd  thro'  the  solemn  sky  : 

"  We  must  speak  low  amidst  our  ancient  hills 
And  their  free  torrents  ;  for  the  days  are  come 

When  tyranny  lies  couch'd  by  forest-rills, 

And  meets  the  shepherd  in  his  mountain-homo. 

Go,  pour  the  wine  of  our  own  grapes  in  fear, 

Keep  silence  by  the  hearth !  its  foes  are  near. 

"  The  envy  of  the  oppressor's  eye  hath  been 

Upon  my  heritage.     I  sit  to-night 
Under  my  household  tree,  if  not  serene, 

Yet  with  the  faces  best-belov'd  in  sight : 
To-morrow  eve  may  find  me  chain'd,  and  thee — 
How  can  I  bear  the  boy's  young  smiles  to  see  ?" 


MIL  SWITZER'S  WIFE.  45 

The  bright  blood  left  that  youthful  mother's  cheek ; 

Back  on  the  linden-stem  she  lean'd  her  form, 
And  her  lip  trembled,  as  it  strove  to  speak, 

Like  a  frail  harp-string,  shaken  by  the  storm. 
'Twas  but  a  moment,  and  the  faintness  pass'd, 
And  the  free  Alpine  spirit  woke  at  last. 

And  she,  that  ever  thro1  her  home  had  mov'd 
With  the  meek  thoughtfulness  and  quiet  smile 

Of  woman,  calmly  loving  and  belov'd, 
And  timid  in  her  happiness  the  while, 

Stood  brightly  forth,  and  stedfastly,  that  hour, 

Her  clear  glance  kindling  into  sudden  power. 

Ay,  pale  she  stood,  but  with  an  eye  of  light, 
And  took  her  fair  child  to  her  holy  breast, 

And  lifted  her  soft  voice,  that  gather'd  might 
As  it  found  language : — "  Are  we  thus  oppressed? 

Then  must  we  rise  upon  our  mountain-sod, 

And  man  must  arm,  and  woman  call  on  God ! 


46  RECORDS    OF    WOMAN. 

"  I  know  what  thou  wouldst  do, — and  be  it  done  ! 

Thy  soul  is  darken'd  with  its  fears  for  me. 
Trust  me  to  Heaven,  my  husband ! — this,  thy  son, 

The  babe  whom  I  have  born  thee,  must  be  free  ! 
And  the  sweet  memory  of  our  pleasant  hearth 
May  well  give  strength — if  aught  be  strong  on  earth. 

"  Thou  hast  been  brooding  o'er  the  silent  dread 
Of  my  desponding  tears  ;  now  lift  once  more, 

My  hunter  of  the  hills  !  thy  stately  head, 
And  let  thine  eagle  glance  my  joy  restore  ! 

I  can  bear  all,  but  seeing  thee  subdued, — 

Take  to  thee  back  thine  own  undaunted  mood. 

"  Go  forth  beside  the  waters,  and  along 
The  chamois-paths,  and  thro'  the  forests  go  ; 

And  tell,  in  burning  words,  thy  tale  of  wrong 
To  the  brave  hearts  that  midst  the  hamlets  glow. 

God  shall  be  with  thee,  my  belov'd ! — Away  ! 

Bless  but  thy  child,  and  leave  me, — I  can  pray  !'' 


HIE  SWITZER'S  WIFE.  47 

He  sprang  up  like  a  warrior-youth  awaking 
To  clarion-sounds  upon  the  ringing  air  ; 

He  caught  her  to  his  breast,  while  proud  tears  breaking 
From  his  dark  eyes,  fell  o'er  her  braided  hair, — 

And  "  Worthy  art  thou,"  was  his  joyous  cry, 

"  That  man  for  thee  should  gird  himself  to  die. 

"  My  bride,  my  wife,  the  mother  of  my  child  ! 

Now  shall  thy  name  be  armour  to  my  heart ; 
And  this  our  land,  by  chains  no  more  defiled, 

Be  taught  of  thee  to  choose  the  better  part ! 
I  go — thy  spirit  on  my  words  shall  dwell, 
Thy  gentle  voice  shall  stir  the  Alps — Farewell !" 

And  thus  they  parted,  by  the'quiet  lake, 

In  the  clear  starlight :  he,  the  strength  to  rouse 

Of  the  free  hills  ;  she,  thoughtful  for  his  sake, 
To  rock  her  child  beneath  the  whispering  boughs 

Singing  its  blue,  half-curtain'd  eyes  to  sleep, 

With  a  low  hymn,  amidst  the  stillness  deep. 


PROPERZIA  ROSSI. 


Properzia  Rossi,  a  celebrated  female  sculptor  of  Bologna,  possessed 
also  of  talents  for  poetry  and  music,  died  in  consequence  of  an  unre- 
quited attachment. — A  painting  by  Ducis,  represents  her  showing  her 
last  work,  a  basso-relievo  of  Ariadne,  to  a  Roman  Knight,  the  object 
of  her  affection,  who  regards  it  with  indifference. 


IT.OPERZIA    R<>.- 


PROPERZIA  ROSSI. 


•  Tell  me  no  more,  no  more 

Of  my  soul's  lofty  gifts  !     Are  they  not  vain 
To  quench  its  haunting  thirst  for  happiness  ? 
Have  I  not  lov'd,  and  striven,  and  fail'd  to  bind 
One  true  heart  unto  rne,  whereon  my  own 
Might  find  a  resting-place,  a  home  for  all 
Its  hurden  of  affections  ?     I  depart, 
Unknown,  tho'  Fame  goes  with  me  ;  I  must  leave 
The  earth  unknown.     Yet  it  may  be  that  death 
Shall  give  my  name  a  power  to  win  such  tears 
As  would  have  made  life  precious. 


I. 

ONE  dream  of  passion  and  of  beauty  more  ! 
And  in  its  bright  fulfilment  let  me  pour 
My  soul  away  !     Let  earth  retain  a  trace 
Of  that  which  lit  my  being,  tho'  its  race 
Might  have  been  loftier  far.— -Yet  one  more  dream ! 
From  my  deep  spirit  one  victorious  gleam 


52  RECORDS    OF    WOMAN. 

Ere  I  depart !     For  thee  alone,  for  thee  ! 
May  this  last  work,  this  farewell  triumph  be, 
Thou,  lov'd  so  vainly  !     I  would  leave  enshrined 
Something  immortal  of  my  heart  and  mind, 
That  yet  may  speak  to  thee  when  I  am  gone, 
Shaking  thine  inmost  bosom  with  a  tone 
Of  lost  affection ; — something  that  may  prove 
What  she  hath  been,  whose  melancholy  love 
On  thee  was  lavished  ;  silent  pang  and  tear, 
And  fervent  song,  that  gush'd  when  none  were  near, 
And  dream  by  night,  and  weary  thought  by  day, 
Stealing  the  brightness  from  her  life  away, — 

While  thou Awake  !  not  yet  within  me  die, 

Under  the  burden  and  the  agony 

Of  this  vain  tenderness, — my  spirit,  wake  ! 

Ev'n  for  thy  sorrowful  affection's  sake, 

Live  !  in  thy  work  breathe  out ! — that  he  may  yrt, 

Feeling  sad  mastery  there,  perchance  regret 

Thine  unrequited  gift. 


T:R/I\     II" 
II. 

It  comes, — the  power 

Within  me  born,  flows  back  ;  my  fruitless  dower 
That  could  not  win  me  love.     Yet  once  again 
I  greet  it  proudly,  with  its  rushing  train 
Of  glorious  images  :— they  throng — they  press — 
A  sudden  joy  lights  up  my  loneliness, — 
I  shall  not  perish  all ! 

The  bright  work  grows 
Beneath  my  hand,  unfolding,  as  a  rose, 
Leaf  after  leaf,  to  beauty  ;  line  by  line, 
I  fix  my  thought,  heart,  soul,  to  burn,  to  shine, 
Thro'  the  pale  marble's  veins.     It  grows — and  now 
I  give  my  own  life's  history  to  thy  brow, 
Forsaken  Ariadne  !  thou  shalt  wear 
My  form,  my  lineaments  ;  but  oh !  more. fair, 
Touch'd  into  lovelier  being  by  the  glow 

Which  in  me  dwells,  as  by  the  summer-light 
All  things  are  glorified.     From  thee  my  wo 

Shall  yet  look  beautiful  to  meet  his  sight, 

5* 


ORDS    01     WOMAN. 

When  I  am  pass'd  away.     Thou  art  the  mould 

Wherein  I  pour  the  fervent  thoughts,  th'  untold, 

The  self-consuming  !     Speak  to  him  of  me, 

Thou,  the  deserted  by  the  lonely  sea, 

With  the  soft  sadness  of  thine  earnest  eye, 

Speak  to  him,  lorn  one !  deeply,  mournfully, 

Of  all  my  love  and  grief!     Oh  !  could  I  thro  AY 

Into  thy  frame  a  voice,  a  sweet,  and  low, 

And  thrilling  voice  of  song  !  when  he  came  nigh. 

To  send  the  passion  of  its  melody 

Thro'  his  pierc'd  bosom — on  its  tones  to  bear 

My  life's  deep  feeling,  as  the  southern  air 

Wafts  the  faint  myrtle's  breath, — to  rise,  to  swell, 

To  sink  away  in  accents  of  farewell, 

Winning  but  one,  one  gush  of  tears,  whose  flow 

Surely  my  parted  spirit  yet  might  know, 

If  love  be  strong  as  death ! 


I1  no  PE 11/1 A    P.< 
III. 

Now  fair  thou  art, 

Thou  form,  whose  life  is  of  my  burning  heart ! 
Yet  all  the  vision  that  within  me  wrought, 

I  cannot  make  thee  !     Oh !  I  might  have  given 
Birth  to  creations  of  far  nobler  thought, 

I  might  have  kindled,  with  the  fire  of  heaven^ 
Things  not  of  such  as  die  !     But  I  have  been 
Too  much  alone  ;  a  heart  whereon  to  lean, 
With  all  these  deep  affections,  that  o'erflow 
My  aching  soul,  and  find  no  shore  below  ; 
An  eye  to  be  my  star,  a  voice  to  bring 
Hope  o'er  my  path,  like  sounds  that  breathe  of  spring, 
These  are  denied  me — dreamt  of  still  in  vain, — 
Therefore  my  brief  aspirings  from  the  chain. 
Are  ever  but  as  some  wild  fitful  song, 
Rising  triumphantly,  to  die  ere  long 
In  dirge-like  echoes. 


>RP>    OF 
IV. 

Yet  the  world  will 
Little  of  this,  my  parting  work,  in  thee, 

Thou  shalt  have  fame  !    Oh,  mockery  !  give  the  reed 
From  storms  a  shelter, — give  the  drooping  vine 
Something  round  which  its  tendrils  may  entwine,— 

Give  the  parch'd  flower  a  rain-drop,  and  the  meed 
Of  love's  kind  words  to  woman !     Worthless  fame  ! 
That  in  his  bosom  wins  not  for  my  name 
Th'  abiding-place  it  ask'd  !     Yet  how  my  heart, 
In  its  own  fairy  world  of  song  and  art, 
Once  beat  for  praise  ! — Are  those  high  longings  o'er  '* 
That  which  I  have  been  can  I  be  no  more  ? — 
Never,  oh  !  never  more  ;  tho'  still  thy  sky 
Be  blue  as  then,  my  glorious  Italy  ! 
And  tho'  the  music,  whose  rich  breathings  fill 
Thine  air  with  soul,  be  wandering  past  me  still, 
And  tho'  the  mantle  of  thy  sunlight  streams, 
Unchang'd  on  forms,  instinct  with  poet-dreams ; 


PROPERZIA    ROSSI. 

Never,  oh !  never  more  !     Where'er  I  move. 

The  shadow  of  this  broken-hearted  love 

Is  on  me  and  around  !     Too  well  they  know, 

Whose  life  is  all  within,  too  soon  and  well, 
WThen  there  the  blight  hath  settled  ; — but  I  go 

Under  the  silent  wings  of  peace  to  dwell ; 
From  the  slow  wasting,  from  the  lonely  pain, 
The  inward  burning  of  those  words — "  in  vain," 

Sear'd  on  the  heart — I  go.     'Twill  soon  be  past. 
Sunshine,  and  song,  and  bright  Italian  heaven, 

And  thou,  oh  !  thou,  on  whom  my  spirit  cast 
Unvalued  wealth, — who  know'st  not  what  was  given 
In  that  devotedness, — the  sad,  and  deep, 
And  unrepaid — farewell !     If  I  could  weep 
Once,  only  once,  belov'd  one  !  on  thy  breast, 
Pouring  my  heart  forth  ere  I  sink  to  rest ! 
But  that  were  happiness,  and  unto  me 
Earth's  gift  is  fame.     Yet  I  was  form'd  to  be 
So  richly  blest !     With  thee  to  watch  the  sky, 
Speaking  not,  feeling  but  that  thou  wert  nigh  ; 


RECORDS    OF    \VOI\IAN. 

With  thec  to  listen,  while  the  tones  of  song 

Swept  ev'n  as  part  of  our  sweet  air  along, 

To  listen  silently  ; — with  thee  to  gaze 

On  forms,  the  deified  of  olden  days, 

This  had  been  joy  enough  ; — and  hour  by  hour, 

From  its  glad  well-springs  drinking  life  and  power, 

How  had  my  spirit  soar'd,  and  made  its  fame 

A  glory  for  thy  brow ! — Dreams,  dreams  ! — the  fire 
Burns  faint  within  me.     Yet  I  leave  my  name — 

As  a  deep  thrill  may  linger  on  the  lyre 
When  its  full  chords  are  hush'd — awhile  to  live, 
And  one  day  haply  in  thy  heart  revive 
Sad  thoughts  of  me  : — I  leave  it,  with  a  sound, 
A  spell  o'er  memory,  mournfully  profound, 
I  leave  it,  on  my  country's  air  to  dwell, — 
Say  proudly  yet — "  'Twa-s  tier's  who  lov'd  me  well !" 


GERTRUDE, 
OR  FIDELITY  TILL  DEATH. 


The  Baron  Von  Der  Wart,  accused,  though  it  is  believed  unjustly, 
as  an  accomplice  in  the  assassination  of  the  Emperor  Albert,  was 
bound  alive  on  the  wheel,  and  attended  by  his  wife  Gertrude,  through- 
out his  last  agonizing  hours,  with  the  most  heroic  devotedness.  Her 
own  sufferings,  with  those  of  her  unfortunate  husband,  are  most  af- 
fectingly  described  in  a  letter  which  she  afterwards  addressed  to  a  fe- 
male friend,  and  which  was  published  some  years  ago,  at  Haarlem,  in 
a  book  entitled  Gertrude  Von  Der  Wart,  or  Fidelity  unto  Death. 


GO  UECOKDS    OF 


GERTRUDE, 
OR  FIDELITY  TILL  DEATH 


Dark  lowers  our  fate, 

And  terrible  the  storm  that  gathers  o'er  us  ; 
But  nothing,  till  that  latest  agony 
Which  severs  thee  from  nature,  shall  unloose 
This  fix'd  and  sacred  hold.     In  thy  dark  prison-house, 
In  the  terrific  face  of  armed  law, 
Yea,  on  the  scaffold,  if  it  needs  must  be, 
I  never  will  forsake  thee. 

JOAXNA  BAILLIE. 


HER  hands  were  clasp'd,  her  dark  eyes  rais'd, 
The  breeze  threw  back  her  hair  ; 

Up  to  the  fearful  wheel  she  gazM — 
All  that  she  lov'd  was  there. 


GERTRUDE. 

The  night  was  round  her  clear  and  cold, 

The  holy  heaven  above, 
Its  pale  stars  watching  to  behold 

The  might  of  earthly  love. 

4i  And  bid  me  not  depart,"  she  cried, 

"  My  Rudolph,  say  not  so  ! 
This  is  no  time  to  quit  thy  side, 

Peace,  peace  !  I  cannot  go. 
Hath  the  world  aught  for  me  to  fear, 

When  death  is  on  thy  brow  ? 
The  world  !  what  means  it  ? — mine  is  here — 

I  will  not  leave  thee  now. 

"  I  have  been  with  thee  in  thine  hour 

Of  glory  and  of  bliss  ; 
Doubt  not  its  memory's  living  power 

To  strengthen  me  thro*  this  ! 


02  RECORDS    OF    WOMAN. 

And  thou,  mine  honour'd  love  and  true, 

Bear  on,  bear  nobly  on  ! 
We  have  the  blessed  heaven  in  view, 

Whose  rest  shall  soon  be  won." 

And  were  not  these  high  words  to  flow 

From  woman's  breaking  heart  ? 
Thro'  all  that  night  of  bitterest  wo 

She  bore  her  lofty  part ; 
But  oh !  with  such  a  glazing  eye, 
.    With  such  a  curdling  cheek — 
Love,  love  !  of  mortal  agony, 
Thou,  only  thou  shouldst  speak  ! 

The  wind  rose  high, — but  with  it  rose 
Her  voice,  that  he  might  hear : 

Perchance  that  dark  hour  brought  repose 
To  happy  bosoms  near  ; 


(.KKTRUDL. 

While  she  sat  striving  with  despair 

Beside  his  tortured  form, 
And  pouring  her  deep  soul  in  prayer 

Forth  on  the  rushing  storm. 

She  wiped  the  death-damps  from  his  brow, 

With  her  pale  hands  and  soft, 
Whose  touch  upon  the  lute-chords  low, 

Had  still'd  his  heart  so  oft. 
She  spread  her  mantle  o'er  his  breast, 

She  bath'd  his  lips  with  dew, 
And  on  his  cheeks  such  kisses  press'd 

As  hope  and  joy  ne'er  knew. 

Oh  !  lovely  are  ye,  Love  and  Faith, 

Enduring  to  the  last ! 
She  had  her  meed — one  smile  in  death-— 

And  his  worn  spirit  pass'd. 


RECORDS    OF    WOMAN. 


While  ev'n  as  o'er  a  martyr's  grave 

She  knelt  on  that  sad  spot, 
And,  weeping,  bless'd  the  God  who  gave 

Strength  to  forsake  it  not  ! 


1MELDA.  6-5 


IMELDA. 


— « Sometimes 

The  young  forgot  the  lessons  they  had  learnt, 

And  lov'd  when  they  should  hate, — like  thee,  Imelda !  * 

It a/y,  a  Poem. 

Passa  la  bella  Donna,  e  par  che  donna. 

TASSO. 


WE  have  the  myrtle's  breath  around  us  here, 
Amidst  the  fallen  pillars  ; — this  hath  been 

Some  Naiad's  fane  of  old.     How  brightly  clear, 
Flinging  a  vein  of  silver  o'er  the  scene, 

Up  thro'  the  shadowy  grass,  the  fountain  wells, 
And  music  with  it,  gushing  from  beneath 

The  ivied  altar  ! — that  sweet  murmur  tells 

The  rich  wild  flowers  no  tale  of  wo  or  death ; 
6* 


KECORDS    01'    VIOM 

Yet  once  the  wave  was  darken'd,  and  a  stain 
Lay  deep,  and  heavy  drops — but  not  of  rain — 
On  the  dim  violets  by  its  marble  bed, 
And  the  pale  shining  water-lily's  head. 

Sad  is  that  legend's  truth. — A  fair  girl  met 

One  whom  she  lov'd,  by  this  lone  temple's  spring, 
Just  as  the  sun  behind  the  pine-grove  set, 

And  eve's  low  voice  in  whispers  woke,  to  bring 
All  wanderers  home.     They  stood,  that  gentle  pair. 

With  the  blue  heaven  of  ItaJy  above, 
And  citron-odours  dying  on  the  air, 

And  light  leaves  trembling  round,  and  early  love 
Deep  in  each  breast. — What  reck'd  their  souls  of  strife 
Between  their  fathers  ?  Unto  them  young  life 
Spread  out  the  treasures  of  its  vernal  years  ; 
And  if  they  wept,  they  wept  far  other  tears 


IMELDA.  67 

Than  the  cold  world  wrings  forth.     They  stood,  thai 

hour, 

Speaking  of  hope,  while  tree,  and  fount,  and  flower, 
And  star,  just  gleaming  thro'  the  cypress  boughs, 
Seem'd  holy  things,  as  records  of  their  vows. 

4 

But  change  came  o'er  the  scene.     A  hurrying  tread 

Broke  on  the  whispery  shades,     Imelda  knew 
The  footstep  of  her  brother's  wrath,  and  fled 

Up  where  the  cedars  make  yon  avenue 
Dim  with  green  twilight :  pausing  there,  she  caught — • 
Was  it  the  clash  of  swords  ? — a  swift  dark  thought 

Struck  down  her  lip's  rich  crimson  as  it  pass'd, 
And  from  her  eye  the  sunny  sparkle  took 
One  moment  with  its  fearfulness,  and  shook 

Her  slight  frame  fiercely,  as  a  stormy  blast 
Might  rock  the  rose.     Once  more,  and  yet  once  more, 
She  still'd  her  heart  to  listen, — all  was  o'er  ; 

Sweet  summer  winds  alone  were  heard  to  sigh, 

5  ' 

Bearing  the  nightingale's  deep  spirit  by. 


68  RECORDS    OF    WOMAN. 

That  night  Imelda's  voice  was  in  the  song. 
Lovely  it  floated  thro'  the  festive  throng, 
Peopling  her  father's  halls.     That  fatal  night 
Her  eye  look'd  starry  in  its  dazzling  light, 
And  her  cheek  glow'd  with  heauty's  flushing  dyes, 
Like  a  rich  cloud  of  eve  in  southern  skies, 
A  burning,  ruby  cloud.     There  were,  whose  gaze 
Follow'd  her  form  beneath  the  clear  lamp's  blaze, 
And  marvell'd  at  its  radiance.     But  a  few 
Beheld  the  brightness  of  that  feverish  hue, 
With  something  of  dim  fear  ;  and  in  that  glance 

Found  strange  and  sudden  tokens  of  unrest, 
Startling  to  meet  amidst  the  mazy  dance, 

Where  thought,  if  present,  an  unbidden  guest, 
Comes  not  unmask'd.     Howe'er  this  were,  the  time 
Sped  as  it  speeds  with  joy,  and  grief,  and  crime 
Alike  :  and  when  the  banquet's  hall  was  left 
Unto  its  garlands  of  their  bloom  bereft, 
When  trembling  stars  look'd  silvery  in  their  wane, 
And  heavy  flowers  yet  slumber'd,  once  again 


IMELDA.  69 

There  stole  a  footstep,  fleet,  and  light,  and  lone, 

Thro'  the  dim  cedar  shade  ;  the  step  of  one 

That  started  at  a  leaf,  of  one  that  fled, 

Of  one  that  panted  with  some  secret  dread  : — 

What  did  Imelda  there  ?     She  sought  the  scene 

Where  love  so  late  with  youth  and  hope  had  been  ; 

Bodings  were  on  her  soul — a  shuddering  thrill 

Ran  thro'  each  vein,  when  first  the  Naiad's  rill 

Met  her  with  melody — sweet  sounds  and  low  ; 

We  hear  them  yet,  they  live  along  its  flow — 

Her  voice  is  music  lost !     The  fountain-side 

She    gain'd — the    wave    flash'd     forth — 'twas    darkly 

dyed 
Ev'n  as  from  warrior-hearts  ;  and  on  its  edge, 

Amidst  the  fern,  and  flowers,  and  moss-tufts  deep, 
There  lay,  as  lull'd  by  stream  and  rustling  sedge, 

A  youth,  a  graceful  youth.  "  Oh  !  dost  thou  sleep? 
Azzo  !"  she  cried,  "  my  Azzo  !  is  this  rest  ?" 
But  then  her  low  tones  falter'd  : — "  On  thy  breast 


70  RECORDS    OF    WOMAN. 

Is  the  stain, — yes,  'tis  blood  ! — and  that  cold  cheek — 
That  moveless  lip  ! — thou  dost  not  slumber  1 — speak, 
Speak,  Azzo,  my  belov'd  ! — no  sound — no  breath — 
What  hath  come  thus  between  our  spirits  ? — Death  ! 
Death  ? — I  but  dream — I    dream  !" — and    there  sho 

stood, 

A  faint,  frail  trembler,  gazing  first  on  blood, 
With  her  fair  arm  around  yon  cypress  thrown, 
Her  form  sustain'd  by  that  dark  stem  alone, 
And  fading  fast,  like  spell-struck  maid  of  old, 
Into  white  waves  dissolving,  clear  and  cold  ; 
When    from    the    grass    her    dimm'd    eye    caught  a 

gleam — > 

'Twas  where  a  sword  lay  shiver'd  by  the  stream,— 
Her  brother's  sword  ! — she  knew  it ;  and  she  knew 
'Twas  with  a  venom'd  point  that  weapon  slew  ! 
Wo  for  young  love !     But    love    is   strong.     There 

came 
Strength  upon  woman's  fragile  heart  and  frame. 


IMELDA.  71 

There  came  swift  courage  !     On  the  dewy  ground 
She  knelt,  with  all  her  dark  hair  floating  round, 
Like  a  long  silken  stole  ;  she  knelt,  and  press'd 
Her  lips  of  glowing  life  to  Azzo's  breast, 
Drawing  the  poison  forth.     A  strange,  sad  sight ! 
Pale  death,  and  fearless  love,  and  solemn  night ! — 
So  the  moon  saw  them  last. 

The  morn  came  singing 

Thro*  the  green  forests  of  the  Appenines, 
With  all  her  joyous  birds  their  free  flight  winging, 

And  steps  and  voices  out  among  the  vines. 
What  found  that  day-spring  here  ?     Two  fair  forms 

laid 

Like  sculptured  sleepers  ;  from  the  myrtle  shade 
Casting  a  gleam  of  beauty  o'er  the  wave, 
Still,  mournful,  sweet.     Were  such    things    for    the 

grave? 

Could  it  be  so  indeed  ?     That  radiant  girl, 
Deck'd  as  for  bridal  hours  ! — long  braids  of  pearl 


72  RECORDS    OF   WOMAN. 

Amidst  her  shadowy  locks  were  faintly  shining, 

As  tears  might  shine,  with  melancholy  light ; 
And  there  was  gold  her  slender  waist  entwining  ; 

And  her  pale  graceful  arms — how  sadly  bright ! 
And  fiery  gems  upon  her  breast  were  lying, 
And  round  her  marble  brow  red  roses  dying. — 
But  she  died  first !— the  violet's  hue  had  spread 

O'er  her  sweet  eyelids  with  repose  oppress'd, 
She  had  bow'd  heavily  her  gentle  head, 

And,  on  the  youth's  hush'd  bosom,  sunk  to  rest. 
So  slept  they  well ! — the  poison's  work  was  done  ; 
Love  with  true  heart  had  striven — but  Death  had  won. 


EDITH, 

A  TALE  OF   THE  WOODS.* 


Du  Heilige  !  rufe  dein  Kind  zuruck  I 
Ich  habe  genossen  das  irdische  Gliick, 
Ich  habe  gclcbt  und  geliebet. 

WALLEXSTEIX. 


THE  woods — oh  !  solemn  are  the  boundless  wood? 

Of  the  great  Western  World,  when  day  declines. 
And  louder  sounds  the  roll  of  distant  floods, 

More  deep  the  rustling  of  the  ancient  pines  - 
When  dimness  gathers  on  the  stilly  air, 

And  mystery  seems  o'er  every  leaf  to  brood* 
Awful  it  is  for  human  heart  to  bear 

The  might  and  burden  of  the  solitude  ! 

*  Founded  on  incidents  related  in  an  American  work,  "  Sketches 
•  n'onnectiout." 


74  RECORDS    OF    WOMAN. 

Yet,  in  that  hour,  midst  those    green  wastes,  there 

sate 

One  young  and  fair  ;  and  oh  !  how  desolate ! 
But  undismay'd  ;  while  sank  the  crimson  light. 
And  the  high  cedars  darken'd  with  the  night. 
Alone  she  sate  :  tho'  many  lay  around, 
They,  pale  and  silent  on  the  bloody  ground, 
Were  sever'd  from  her  need  and  from  her  wo, 

Far  as  Death  severs  Life.     O'er  that  wild  spot 
Combat  had  rag'd,  and  brought  the  valiant  low, 

And  left  them,  with  the  history  of  their  lot, 
Unto  the  forest  oaks.     A  fearful  scene 
For  her  whose  home  of  other  days  had  been 
Midst  the  fair  halls  of  England  !  but  the  love 

Which  fill'd  her  soul  was  strong  to  cast  t>ut  fear, 
And  by  its  might  upborne  all  else  above, 

She  shrank  not — inark'd  not  that  the  dead  were 
near. 


EDITH. 


<  )f  him  alone  she  thought,  whose  languid  head 

Faintly  upon  her  wedded  bosom  fell ; 
Memory  of  aught  but  him  on  earth  was  fled, 

While  heavily  she  felt  his  life-blood  well 
Fast  o'er  her  garments  forth,  and  vainly  bound 
With  her  torn  robe  and  hair  the  streaming  wound, 
Yet  hoped,  still  hoped  ! — Oh !  from  such  hope  how  long 

Affection  wooes  the  whispers  that  deceive, 
Ev'n  when  the  pressure  of  dismay  grows  strong, 

And  we,  that  weep,  watch,  tremble,  ne'er  believe 
The  blow  indeed  can  fall !     So  bow'd  she  there, 
Over  the  dying,  while  unconscious  prayer 
Fill'd  all  her  soul.     Now  pour'd  the  moonlight  down, 
Yeining  the  pine-stems  thro'  the  foliage  brown, 
And  fire-flies,  kindling  up  the  leafy  place, 
Cast  fitful  radiance  o'er  the  warrior's  face, 
Whereby  she  caught  its  changes  :  to  her  eye, 

The  eye  that  faded  look'd  through  gathering  haze, 
Whence  love,  o'ermastering  mortal  agony. 

Lifted  a  long  deep  melancholy  gaze. 


7  to  nr.coKPs  OF  WOMAX. 

| 
When  voice  was  not :  that  fond  sad  meaning  pass'd — 

She  knew  the  fulness  of  her  wo  at  last ! 

One  shriek  the  forests  heard, — and  mute  she  lay, 

And  cold  ;  yet  clasping  still  the  precious  clay 

To  her  scarce-heaving  breast.     O  Love  and  Death  ! 

Ye  have  sad  meetings  oa  this  changeful  earth, 

Many  and  sad  !  but  airs  of  heavenly  breath 

Shall  melt  the  links  which  bind  you,  for  your  birth 

Is  far  apart, 

Now  light,  of  richer  hue 

Than  the  moon  sheds,  came  flushing  mist  and  dew ; 
The  pines  grew  red  with  morning  ;  fresh  winds  play'd, 
Bright-colour'd  birds  with  splendour  cross'd  the  shade, 
Flitting  on  flower-like  wings  ;  glad  murmurs  broke 

From  reed,  and  spray,  and  leaf,  the  living  strings 
Of  earth's  Eolian  lyre,  whose  music  woke 

Into  young  life  and  joy  all  happy  things. 
And  she  too  woke  from  that  long  dreamless  trance, 
The  widow'd  Edith  :  fearfully  her  glance 


EDITH.  77 

| 

Fell,  as  in  doubt,  on  faces  dark  and  strange, 
And  dusky  forms.     A  sudden  sense  of  change 
Flash'd  o'er  her  spirit,  ev'n  ere  memory  swept 
The  tide  of  anguish  back  with  thoughts  that  slept ; 
Yet  half  instinctively  she  rose,  and  spread 
Her  arms,  as  'twere  for  something  lost  or  fled, 
Then  faintly  sank  again.     The  forest-bough, 
W  ith  all  its  whispers,  wav'd  not  o'er  her  now, — 
Where  was  she  ?     Midst  the  people  of  the  wild, 

By  the  red  hunter's  fire  :  an  aged  chief, 
Whose  home  look'd  sad — for  therein  play'd  no  child — 

Had  borne  her,iin  the  stillness  of  her  grief, 
To  that  lone  cabin  of  the  woods  ;  and  there, 
Won  by  a  form  so  desolately  fair, 
Or  touch'd  with  thoughts  from  some  past  sorrow  sprung, 
O'er  her  low  couch  an  Indian  patron  hung, 
While  in  grave  silence,  yet  with  earnest  eye, 
The  ancient  warrior  of  the  waste  stood  by, 
Bending  in  watchfulness  his  proud  grey  head, 

And  leaning  on  his  bow. 

7* 


•78  >RDS  or   \\tr\M\. 

• 

And  lite  return'ii. 

Life,  but  with  all  its  memories  of  the  dead, 

To  Edith's  heart ;  and  well  the  sufferer  learn'd 
Her  task  of  meek  endurance,  well  she  wore 
The  chasten'd  grief  that  humbly  can  adore, 
Midst  blinding  tears.     But  unto  that  old  pair, 
Ev'n  as  a  breath  of  spring's  awakening  air, 
Her  presence  was ;  or  as  a  sweet  wild  tune 
Bringing  back  tender  thoughts,  which  all  too  soon 
Depart  with  childhood.     Sadly  they  had  seen 

A  daughter  to  the  land  of  spirits  go, 
And  ever  from  that  time  her  fading  Mien, 

And  voice,  like  winds  of  summer,  soft  and  low. 
Had  haunted  their  dim  years  ;  but  Edith's  face 
Now  look'd  in  holy  sweetness  from  "her  place, 
And  they  again  seem'd  parents.     Oh  !  the  joy, 
The  rich,  deep  blessedness — tho'  earth's  alloy, 
Fear,  that  still  bodes,  be  there — of  pouring  forth 
The  heart's  whole   power  of  love,  its    wealth    and 
worth 


i-.un  it. 

Of  strong  affection,  in  one  healthful  flow, 

On  something  all  its  own ! — that  kindly  glow, 

Which  to  shut  inward  is  consuming  pain, 

Gives  the  glad  soul  its  flowering  time  again, 

When,  like  the  sunshine,  freed. — And  gentle  cares 

Th'  adopted  Edith  meekly  gave  for  theirs 

Who  lov'd  her  thus  : — her  spirit  dwelt,  the  while, 

With  the  departed,  and  her  patient  smile 

Spoke  of  farewells  to  earth  ; — yet  still  she  prayM. 

Ev'n  o'er  her  soldier's  lowly  grave,  for  aid 

One  purpose  to  fulfil,  to  leave  one  trace 

Brightly  recording  that  her  dwelling-place 

Had  been  among  the  wilds  ;  for  well  she  knew 

The  secret  whisper  of  her  bosom  true, 

Which  warn'd  her  hence. 

And  now,  by  many  a  word 
Link'd  unto  moments  when  the  heart  was  stirr'd, 
By  the  sweet  mournfulness  of  many  a  hymn, 
Sung  when  the  woods  at  eve  grew  hush'd  and  dim, 


SO  KECORDS    OF    WOMAN. 

By  the  persuasion  of  her  fervent  eye. 

All  eloquent  with  child-like  piety, 

By  the  still  beauty  of  her  life,  she  strove 

To  win  for  heaven,  and  heaven-born  truth,  the  love 

Pour'd  out  on  her  so  freely. — Nor  in  vain 

Was  that  soft-breathing  influence  to  enchain 

The  soul  in  gentle  bonds  :  by  slow  degrees 

Light  follow'd  on,  as  when  a  summer  breeze 

Parts  the  deep  masses  of  the  forest  shade 

And  lets  the  sunbeam  through  : — her  voice  was  made 

Ev'n  such  a  breeze  ;  and  she,  a  lowly  guide, 

By  faith  and  sorrow  rais'd  and  purified, 

So  to  the  Cross  her  Indian  fosterers  led, 

Until  their  prayers  were  one.     When  morning  spread 

O'er  the  blue  lake,  and  when  the  sunset's  glow 

Touch'd  into  golden  bronze  the  cypress-bough. 

And  when  the  quiet  of  the  Sabbath  time 

Sank  on  her  heart,  tho>  no  melodious  chime 

Waken'd  the  wilderness,  their  prayers  were  one. 

— Now  might  she  pass  in  hope,  her  work  was  done. 


EDITH. 

And  she  was  passing  Trom  the  woods  away  ; 

The  broken  flower  of  England  might  not  stay 

Amidst  those  alien  shades  ;  her  eye  was  bright 

Ev'n  yet  with  something  of  a  starry  light, 

But  her  form  wasted,  and  her  fair  young  cheek 

Wore  oft  and  patiently  a  fatal  streak, 

A  rose  whose  root  was  death.     The  parting  sigh 

Of  autumn  thro'  the  forests  had  gone  by, 

And  the  rich  maple  o'er  her  wanderings  lone 

Its  crimson  leaves  in  many  a  shower  had  strown, 

Flushing  the  air  ;  and  winter's  blast  had  been 

Amidst  the  pines  ;  and  now  a  softer  green 

Fring'd  their  dark  boughs  ;  for  spring  again  had  come> 

The  sunny  spring !  but  Edith  to  her  home 

Was  journeying  fast.     Alas  !  we  think  it  sad 

To  part  with  life,  when  all  the  earth  looks  glad 

In  her  young  lovely  things,  when  voices  break 

Into  sweet  sounds,  and  leaves  and  blossoms  wake  : 

Is  it  not  brighter  then,  in  that  far  clime 

Where  graves  are  not,  nor  blights  of  changeful  time, 


^  RECORDS    OF    WOMA.N. 

If  here  such  glory  dwell  with  passing  blooms-. 
Such  golden  sunshine  rest  around  the  tombs  '* 
So  thought  the  dying  one.     'Twas  early  day, 
And  sounds  and  odours  with  the  breezes'  play, 
Whispering  of  spring-time,  thro  the  cabin-door, 
Unto  her  couch  life's  farewell  sweetness  bore  ; 
Then  with  a  look  where  all  her  hope  awoke, 
"  My  father  !" — to  the  grey-hair'd  chief  she  spoke — - 
"  Know'st  thou  that  I  depart?"—4'  I  know,  I  know," 
He  answer'd  mournfully,  "  that  thou  must  go 
To  thy  belov'd,  my  daughter !" — "  Sorrow  not 

For  me,  kind  mother !"  with  meek  smiles  once  more 
She  murmur'd  in  low  tones  ;  "  one  happy  lot 

Awaits,  us,  friends  !  upon  the  better  shore  ; 
For  we  have  pray'd  together  in  one  trust, 
And  lifted  our  frail  spirits  from  the  dust, 
To  God,  who  gave  them.     Lay  me  by  mine  own, 
Under  the  cedar-shade  :  where  he  is  gone 
Thither  I  go.     There  will  my  sisters  be, 
And  the  dead  parents,  lisping  at  whose  knee 


EDITH. 


83 


My  childhood's    prayer  was   learn'd, — the    Saviour's 

prayer 

Which  now  ye  know, — and  I  shall  meet  you  there, 
Father,  and  gentle  mother  ! — ye  have  bound 
The  bruised  reed,  and  mercy  shall  be  found 
By  Mercy's  children." — From  the  matron's  eye 
Dropp'd  tears,  her  sole  and  passionate  reply ; 
But  Edith  felt  them  not ;  for  now  a  sleep, 
Solemnly  beautiful,  a  stillness  deep, 
Fell  on  her  settled  face.     Then,  sad  and  slow, 
And  mantling  up  his  stately  head  in  wo, 
"  Thou'rt  passing  hence,"  he  sang,  that  warrior  old, 
In  sounds  like  those  by  plaintive  waters  roll'd. 


••  Thou'rt  passing  from  the  lake's  green  side, 

And  the  hunter's  hearth  away ; 
For  the  time  of  flowers,  for  the  summer's  pride, 

Daughter  !  thou  canst  not  stay. 


,      RECORDS    OF    WOMAX. 

Thou'rt  journeying  to  thy  spirit's  home. 

Where  the  skies  are  ever  clear ; 
The  corn-month's  golden  hours  will  come. 

But  they  shall  not  find  thee  here. 

And  we  shall  miss  thy  voice,  my  bird  ! 

Under  our  whispering  pine  ; 
Music  shall  midst  the  leaves  be  heard, 

But  not  a  song  like  thine. 

A  breeze  that  roves  o'er  stream  and  hill, 

Telling  of  winter  gone, 
Hath  such  sweet  falls — yet  caught  we  still 

A  farewell  in  its  tone. 

But  thou,  my  bright  one  !  thou  shalt  be 
Where  farewell  sounds  are  o'er  ; 

Thou,  in  the  eyes  thou  lov'st,  shalt  set- 
No  fear  of  parting  more. 


EDITH, 

The  mossy  grave  thy  tears  have  wet, 
And  the  wind's  wild  moanings  by, 

Thou  with  thy  kindred  shalt  forget. 
Midst  flowers — not  such  as  die. 

The  shadow  from  thy  brow  shall  melt, 

The  sorrow  from  thy  strain, 
But  where  thine  earthly  smile  hath  dwelt, 

Our  hearts  shall  thirst  in  vain. 

Dim  will  our  cabin  be,  and  lone, 

"When  thou,  its  light,  art  fled  ; 
Vet  hath  thy  step  the  pathway  shown 

Unto  the  happy  dead. 

And  we  will  follow  thee,  our  guide ! 

And  join  that  shining  band  ; 
Thou'rt  passing  from  the  lake's  green  side— 

Go  to  the  better  land  !" 


86  RECORDS    OF   WOMAN. 

The  song  had  ceas'd — the  listeners  caught  no  breath, 
That  lovely  sleep  had  melted  into  death. 


THE    IKDIAN    CITY, 


THE  INDIAN  CITY.* 


What  deep  wounds  ever  clos'd  without  a  scar  ? 
The  heart's  bleed  longest,  and  but  heal  to  wear 
That  which  disfigures  it. 

Ckttdt  HaroU, 


I. 

ROYAL  in  splendour  went  down  the  day 
On  the  plain  where  an  Indian  city  lay, 
With  its  crown  of  domes  o'er  the  forest  high, 
Red  as  if  fused  in  the  burning  sky, 
And  its  deep  groves  pierced  by  the  rays  which  made 
A  bright  stream's  way  thro'  each  long  arcade, 
Till  the  pillar'd  vaults  of  the  Banian  stood, 
Like  torch-lit  aisles  midst  the  solemn  wood, 

*  From  a  tale  in  Forbes'  Oriental  Memoirs, 


^  RECORDS    OF   WOMAN. 

And  the  plantain  glitter' d  with  leaves  of  gold. 

As  a  tree  midst  the  genii-gardens  old, 

And  the  cypress  lifted  a  blazing  spire, 

And  the  stems  of  the  cocoas  were  shafts  of  fire. 

Many  a  white  pagoda's  gleam 

Slept  lovely  round  upon  lake  and  stream, 

Broken  alone  by  the  lotus-flowers, 

As  they  caught  the  glow  of  the  sun's  last  hours, 

Like  rosy  wine  in  their  cups,  and  shed 

Its  glory  forth  on  their  crystal  bed. 

Many  a  graceful  Hindoo  maid, 

With  the  water-vase  from  the  palmy  shade. 

Came  gliding  light  as  the  desert's  roe, 

Down  marble  steps  to  the  tanks  below ; 

And  a  cool  sweet  plashing  was  ever  heard, 

As  the  molten  glass  of  the  wave  was  stirr'd  : 

And  a  murmur,  thrilling  the  scented  air, 

Told  where  the  Brarm'n  bow'd  in  prayer. 


1  111.    INDIAN    CITY. 

There  wandered  a  noble  Moslem  boy 
Thro*  the  scene  of  beauty  in  breathless  joy  ; 
He  gazed  where  the  stately  city  rose 
Like  a  pageant  of  clouds  in  its  red  repose  ; 
He  turn'd  where  birds  thro'  the  gorgeous  gloom 
Of  the  woods  went  glancing  on  starry  plume  ; 
He  track'd  the  brink  of  the  shining  lake, 
By  the  tall  canes  feathered  in  tuft  and  brake, 
Till  the  path  he  chose,  in  its  mazes  wound 
To  the  very  heart  of  the  holy  ground. 

And  there  lay  the  water,  as  if  enshrin'd 
In  a  rocky  urn  from  the  sun  and  wind, 
Bearing  the  hues  of  the  grove  on  high, 
Far  down  thro'  its  dark  still  purity. 
The  flood  beyond,  to  the  fiery  west 
Spread  out  like  a  metal-mirror's  breast, 
But  that  lone  bay,  in  its  dimness  deep, 
Seem'd  made  for  the  swimmer's  joyous  leap, 


:M)  in. i  «M;l>S    or    \MO1AN. 

For  the  stag  athirst  from  the  noontide  chase. 
For  all  free  things  of  the  wild-wood's  race. 

Like  a  falcon's  glance  on  the  wide  blue  sky, 
Was  the  kindling  flash  of  the  boy's  glad  eye, 
Like  a  sea-bird's  flight  to  the  foaming  wave, 
From  the  shadowy  bank  was  the  bound  he  gave  ; 
Dashing  the  spray-drops,  cold  and  white, 
O'er  the  glossy  leaves  in  his  young  delight, 
And  bowing  his  locks  to  the  waters  clear — 
Alas  !  he  dreamt  not  that  fate  was  near. 

His  mother  look'd  from  her  tent  the  while, 
O'er  heaven  and  earth  with  a  quiet  smile  : 
She,  on  her  way  unto  Mecca's  fane, 
Had  stay'd  the  march  of  her  pilgrim-train, 
Calmly  to  linger  a  few  brief  hours, 
In  the  Bramin  city's  glorious  bowers  ; 
For  the  pomp  of  the  forest,  the  wave's  bright  fall. 
The  red  gold  of  sunset — she  lov'd  them  all. 


THE    INDIAN    (It  > 
II. 

The  moon  rose  clear  in  the  splendour  given 
To  the  deep-blue  night  of  an  Indian  heaven  ; 
The  boy  from  the  high-arch'd  woods  came  back — 
Oh !  what  had  he  met  in  his  lonely  track  ? 
The  serpent's  glance,  thro'  the  long  reeds  bright  ? 
The  arrowy  spring  of  the  tiger's  might  ? 
No  ! — yet  as  one  by  a  conflict  worn, 
With  his  graceful  hair  all  soil'd  and  torn, 
And  a  gloom  on  the  lids  of  his  darken'd  eye, 
And  a  gash  on  his  bosom — he  came  to  die  ! 
He  look'd  for  the  face  to  his  young  heart  sweet, 
And  found  it,  and  sank  at  his  mother's  feet. 

u  Speak  to  me  ! — whence  doth  the  swift  blood  run  ? 

What  hath  befall'n  thee,  my  child,  my  son  ?" 

The  mist  of  death  on  his  brow  lay  pale, 

But  his  voice  just  linger'd  to  breathe  the  tale, 

Murmuring  faintly  of  wrongs  and  scorn, 

And  wounds  from  the  children  of  Brahma  born  : 


t»2  >->RDS    OF 

This  was  the  doom  for  a  Moslem  found 
With  foot  profane  on  their  holy  ground, 
This  was  for  sullying  the  pure  waves  free 
Unto  them  alone — 'twas  their  God's  decree. 

A  change  came  o'er  his  wandering  look — 

The  mother  shriek'd  not  then,  nor  shook  : 

Breathless  she  knelt  in  her  son's  young  blood, 

Rending  her  mantle  to  staunch  its  flood  ; 

But  it  rush'd  like  a  river  which  none  may  stay. 

Bearing  a  flower  to  the  deep  away. 

That  which  our  love  to  the  earth  would  chain. 

Fearfully  striving  with  Heaven  in  vain, 

That  which  fades  from  us,  while  yet  we  hold, 

Clasp'd  to  our  bosoms,  its  mortal  mould, 

Was  fleeting  before  her,  afar  and  fast ; 

One  moment — the  soul  from  the  face  had  pass'd  ! 

Are  there  no  words  for  that  common  wo  ? 
—Ask  of  the  thousands,  its  depth  that  know ! 


THE    INDIAN    CITY. 

The  boy  had  breathed,  in  his  dreaming  rest. 

Like  a  low-voiced  dove,  on  her  gentle  breast ; 

He  had  stood,  when  she  sorrow'd,  beside  her  knee, 

Painfully  stilling  his  quick  heart's  glee  ; 

He  hacf  kiss'd  from  her  cheek  the  widow's  tears, 

With  the  loving  lip  of  his  infant  years  ; 

He  had  smiPd  o'er  her  path  like  a  bright  spring-day- 

Now  in  his  blood  on  the  earth  he  lay  ! 

Murder'd ! — Alas  !  and  we  love  so  well 

In  a  world  where  anguish  like  this  can  dwell ! 

She  bow'd  down  mutely  o'er  her  dead — 
They  that  stood  round  her  watch'd  in  dread  : 
They  watch'd — she  knew  not  they  were  by — 
Her  soul  sat  veil'd  in  its  agony. 
On  the  silent  lip  she  press'd  no  kiss, 
Too  stern  was  the  grasp  of  her  pangs  for  this  ; 
She  shed  no  tear  as  her  face  bent  low, 
O'er  the  shining  hair  of  the  lifeless  brow  : 


94  RECORDS    OF    W*MAN. 

She  look'd  but  into  the  half-shut  eye, 
With  a  gaze  that  found  there  no  reply, 
And  shrieking,  mantled  her  head  from  sight, 
And  fell,  struck  down  by  her  sorrow's  might ! 

And  what  deep  change,  what  work  of  power, 
Was  wrought  on  her  secret  soul  that  hour  ? 
How  rose  the  lonely  one  ? — She  rose 
Like  a  prophetess  from  dark  repose  ! 
And  proudly  flung  from  her  face  the  veil, 
And  shook  the  hair  from  her  forehead  pale, 
And  'midst  her  wondering  handmaids  stood, 
With  the  sudden  glance  of  a  dauntless  mood. 
Ay,  lifting  up  to  the  midnight  sky 
A  brow  in  its  regal  passion  high, 
With  a  close  and  rigid  grasp  she  press'd 
The  blood-stain'd  robe  to  her  heaving  breast. 
And  said — "  Not  yet— not  yet  I  weep, 
Not  yet  my  spirit  shall  sink  or  sleep, 


THE    INDIAN    CITY* 

Not  till  yon  city,  in  ruins  rent, 

Be  piled  for  its  victim's  monument. 

— Cover  his  dust !  bear  it  on  before  ! 

It  shall  visit  those  temple-gates  once  more." 

And  away  in  the  train  of  the  dead  she  turn'd, 
The  strength  of  her  step  was  the  heart  that  burn'd  ; 
And  the  Bramin  groves  in  the  starlight  smiPd, 
As  the  mother  pass'd  with  her  slaughter'd  child  < 

m. 

Hark  !  a  wild  sound  of  the  desert's  horn 
Thro*  the  woods  round  the  Indian  city  borne. 
A  peal  of  the  cymbal  and  tambour  afar- 
War  !  'tis  the  gathering  of  Moslem  war ! 
The  Bramin  look'd  from  the  leaguer'd  towers — 
He  saw  the  wild  archer  amidst  his  bowers ; 
And  the  lake  that  flash'd  through  the  plantain  shade, 
As  the  light  of  the  lances  along  it  play'd  ; 


96  RECORDS    OF    WOMAN- 

And  the  canes  that  shook  as  if  winds  were  high, 
When  the  fiery  steed  of  the  waste  swept  by ; 
And  the  camp  as  it  lay,  like  a  billowy  sea, 
Wide  round  the  sheltering  Banian  tree. 

There  stood  one  tent  from  the  rest  apart — 
That  was  the  place  of  a  wounded  heart. 
— Oh  !  deep  is  a  wounded  heart,  and  strong 
A  voice  that  cries  against  mighty  wrong  ; 
And  full  of  death,  as  a  hot  wind's  blight, 
Doth  the  ire  of  a  crush'd  affection  light. 

Maimuna  from  realm  to  realm  had  pass'd, 
And  her  tale  had  rung  like  a  trumpet's  blast. 
There  had  been  words  from  her  pale  lips  pour'd, 
Each  one  a  spell  to  unsheath  the  sword. 
The  Tartar  had  sprung  from  his  steed  to  hear, 
And  the  dark  chief  of  Araby  grasp'd  his  spear. 
Till  a  chain  of  long  lances  begirt  the  wall, 
And  a  vow  was  recorded  that  doom'd  its  fall. 


THE    INDIAN    CITY.  97 

Back  with  the  dust  of  her  son  she  came, 

When  her  voice  had  kindled  that  lightning  flame  : 

She  came  in  the  might  of  a  queenly  foe, 

Banner,  and  javelin,  and  bended  bow  ; 

But  a  deeper  power  on  her  forehead  sate — 

There  sought  the  warrior  his  star  of  fate ; 

Her  eye's  wild  flash  through  the  tented  line 

Was  hail'd  as  a  spirit  and  a  sign, 

And  the  faintest  tone  from  her  lip  was  caught, 

As  a  Sybil's  breath  of  prophetic  thought. 

Vain,  bitter  glory  ! — the  gift  of  grief, 
That  lights  up  vengeance  to  find  relief, 
Transient  and  faithless  ! — it  cannot  fill 
So  the  deep  void  of  the  heart,  nor  still 
The  yearning  left  by  a  broken  tie, 
That  haunted  fever  of  which  we  die  ! 

Sickening  she  turn'd  from  her  sad  renown, 
As  a  king  in  death  might  reject  his  crown  : 


I;M  oRDS   OF    I 

Slowly  the  strength  of  the  walls  gave  way— 
She  withered  faster  from  day  to  day. 
All  the  proud  sounds  of  that  banner'd  plain. 
To  stay  the  flight  of  her  soul  were  vain ; 
Like  an  eagle  caged,  it  had  striven,  and  worn 
The  frail  dust  ne'er  for  such  conflicts  born. 
Till  the  bars  were  rent,  and  the  hour  was  come 
For  its  fearful  rushing  thro'  darkness  home. 

The  bright  sun  set  in  his  pomp  and  pride, 
As  on  that  eve  when  the  fair  boy  died  ; 
She  gazed  from  her  couch,  and  a  softness  fell 
O'er  her  weary  heart  with  the  day's  farewell : 
She  spoke,  and  her  voice  in  its  dying  tone 
Had  an  echo  of  feelings  that  long  seem'd  flown. 
She  murmur'd  a  low  sweet  cradle  song, 
Strange  midst  the  din  of  a  warrior  throng, 
A  song  of  the  time  when  her  boy's  young  cheek 
Had  glow'd  on  her  breast  in  its  slumber  meek  : 


"HIE    INDIAN    C1M  .  91) 

But    something  which   breathed  from  that  mournful 

strain 

Sent  a  fitful  gust  o'er  her  soul  again, 
And  starting  as  if  from  a  dream,  she  cried — 
"  Give  him  proud  burial  at  my  side ! 
There,  by  yon  lake,  where  the  palm-boughs  wave, 
When  the  temples  are  fallen,  make  there  our  grave." 

And  the  temples  fell,  tho'  the  spirit  pass'd, 
That  stay'd  not  for  victory's  voice  at  last ; 
When  the  day  was  won  for  the  martyr-dead, 
For  the  broken  heart,  and  the  bright  blood  shed. 

Thro'  the  gates  of  the  vanquish'd  the  Tartar  steed 

Bore  in  the  avenger  with  foaming  speed  ; 

Free  swept  the  flame  thro'  the  idol-fanes, 

And  the  streams  glow'd  red,  as  from  warrior-veins, 

And  the  sword  of  the  Moslem,  let  loose  to  slay, 

Like  the  panther  leapt  on  its  flying  prey, 


I  DO  RECORDS    OF    WOMAN. 

Till  a  city  of  ruin  begirt  the  shade, 

Where  the  boy  and  his  mother  at  rest  were  laid. 

Palace  and  tower  on  that  plain  were  left, 
Like  fallen  trees  by  the  lightning  cleft ; 
The  wild  vine  mantled  the  stately  square, 
The  Rajah's  throne  was  the  serpent's  lair. 
And  the  jungle  grass  o'er  the  altar  sprung — 
This  was  the  work  of  one  deep  heart  wrung ! 


J  HE  PEASANT  f.lRI.  OF  THE  RHONE.  lOJ 


THE  PEASANT  GIRL  OF  THE  RHONE. 


There  is  but  one  place  in  the  world. 

Thither  where  he  lies  buried  ! 

******** 

There,  there  is  all  that  still  remains  of  him, 
That  single  spot  is  the  whole  earth  to  me. 

COLERIDGE'S  Wdlenstdn. 

Alas !  our  young  affections  run  to  waste, 
Or  water  but  the  desert. 

Clnlde  Harold. 


THERE  went  a  warrior's  funeral  thro'  the  night, 

A  waving  of  tall  plumes,  a  ruddy  light 

Of  torches,  fitfully  and  wildly  thrown 

From  the  high  woods,  along  the  sweeping  Rhone, 

Far  down  the  waters.     Heavily  and  dead, 

Under  the  moaning  trees  the  horse-hoof's  tread 

9* 


ORDS    OF    WO3IAV. 

In  muffled  sounds  upon  the  greensward  fell, 
As  chieftains  pass'd  ;  and  solemnly  the  swell 
Of  the  deep  requiem,  o'er  the  gleaming  river 
Borne  with  the  gale,  and  with  the  leaves'  low  shiver, 
Floated  and  died.     Proud  mourners  there,  yet  pale, 

Wore  man's  mute  anguish  sternly  ; — but  of  one 
Oh !  who  shall  speak  ?     What  words  his  brow  unveil  ? 

A  father  following  to  the  grave  his  son  ! 
That  is  no  grief  to  picture  !     Sad  and  slow, 

Thro'  the  wood-shadows  moved  the  knightly  train, 
With  youth's  fair  form  upon  the  bier  laid  low, 

Fair  even  when  found,  amidst  the  bloody  slain, 
Stretch'd  by  its  broken  lance.     They  reached  the  lone 

Baronial  chapel,  where  the  forest  gloom 
Fell  heaviest,  for  the  massy  boughs  had  grown 

Into  thick  archways,  as  to  vault  the  tomb. 
Stately  they  trod  the  hollow  ringing  aisle, 
A  strange  deep  echo  shuddered  thro'  the  pile, 
Till  crested  heads  at  last,  in  silence  bent 
Round  the  De  Coucis'  antique  monument. 


THE  PEASANT  GIRL  OF  THE  RHONE.  i  Do 

When  dust  to  dust  was  given  : — and  Aymer  slept 

Beneath  the  drooping  banners  of  his  line, 
Whose  broidered  folds  the  Syrian  wind  had  swept 

Proudly  and  oft  o'er  fields  of  Palestine  : 
So  the  sad  rite  was  clos'd. — The  sculptor  gave 
Trophies,  ere  long,  to  deck  that  lordly  grave, 
And  the  pale  image  of  a  youth,  arrayed 
As  warriors  are  for  fight,  but  calmly  laid 

In  slumber  on  his  shield. — Then  all  was  done, 
All  still,  around  the  dead. — His  name  was  heard. 
Perchance  when  wine-cups  flow'd,   and  hearts  won.* 
stirrd 

By  some  old  song,  or  tale  of  battle  won, 
Told  round  the  hearth  :  but  in  his  father's  breast 
Manhood's  high  passions  woke  again,  and  press'd 
On  to  their  mark  ;  and  in  his  friend's  clear  eye 
There  dwelt  no  shadow  of  a  dream  gone  by  ; 
And  with  the  brethren  of  his  fields,  the  feast 
Was  gay  as  when  the  voice  whose  sounds  had  ceas'd 


'•RT»S     Or     AYOMAN, 

Mingled  with  theirs. — Ev'n  thus  life's  rushing  tide 
Bears  back  affection  from  the  grave's  dark  side  : 
Alas  !  to  think  of  this  ! — the  heart's  void  place 

Filled  up  so  soon  ! — so  like  a  summer-cloud, 
All  that  we  lov'd  to  pass  and- leave  no  trace ! — 

He  lay  forgotten  in  his  early  shroud. 
Forgotten  ? — not  of  all ! — the  sunny  smile 
Glancing  in  play  o'er  that  proud  lip  erewhile, 
And  the  dark  locks  whose  breezy  waving  threw 
A  gladness  round,  whene'er  their  shade  withdrew 
From  the  bright  brow  ;  and  all  the  sweetness  lying 

Within  that  eagle-eye's  jet  radiance  deep, 
And  all  the  music  with  that  young  voice  dying, 

Whose  joyous  echoes  made  the  quick  heart  leap 
As  at  a  hunter's  bugle — these  things  lived 
Still  in  one  breast,  whose  silent  love  survived 
The  pomps  of  kindred  sorrow. — Day  by  day, 
On  Aymer's  tomb  fresh  flowers  in  garlands  lay, 
Thro'  the  dim  fane  soft  summer- odours  breathing, 
And  all  the  pale  sepulchral  trophies  wreathing, 


HIE  PEASANT  GIRL  OF  THE  RHONE.  105 

And  with  a  flush  of  deeper  brilliance  glowing 
In  the  rich  light,  like  molten  rubies  flowing 
Thro'  storied  windows  down.     The  violet  there 
Might  speak  of  love — a  secret  love  and  lowly. 
And  the  rose  image  all  things  fleet  and  fair, 
And  the  faint  passion-flower,  the  sad  and  holy, 
Tell  of  diviner  hopes.     But  whose  light  hand. 
As  for  an  altar,  wove  the  radiant  band  ? 
Whose  gentle  nurture  brought,  from  hidden  dells. 
That  gem-like  wealth  of  blossoms  and  sweet  bells. 
To  blush  through  every  season  ? — Blight  and  chill    . 
Might  touch  the  changing  woods,  but  duly  still, 
For  years,  those  gorgeous  coronals  renewed, 

And  brightly  clasping  marble  spear  and  helm, 
Even  thro'  mid-winter,  filled  the  solitude 

With  a  strange  smile,  a  glow  of  summer's  realm. 
Surely  some  fond  and  fervent  heart  was  pouring 
Its  youth's  vain  worship  on  the  dust,  adoring 
In  lone  devotedness  ! 


RECORDS    OF    WOM 

One  spring-morn  rose, 

And  found,  within  that  tomb's  proud  shadow  laid — 
Oh  !  not  as  midst  the  vineyards,  to  repose 

From  the  fierce  noon — a  dark-hair'd  peasant  maid  : 
Who  could  reveal  her  story  ? — That  still  face 

Had  once  been  fair ;  for  on  the  clear  arch'd  brow, 
And  the  curv'd  lip,  there  lingered  yet  such  grace 

As  sculpture  gives  its  dreams  ;  and  long  and  low 
The  deep  black  lashes,  o'er  the  half-shut  eye — 
For  death  was  on  its  lids — fell  mournfully. 
But  the  cold  cheek  was  sunk,  the  raven  hair 
Dimm'd  the  slight  form  all  wasted,  as  by  care. 
Whence  came  that  early  blight? — Her  kindred's  place 
Was  not  amidst  the  high  De  Couci  race  ; 
Yet    there    her    shrine    had    been  ! — She    grasp'd  8 

wreath — 
The  tomb's  last  garland ! — This  was  love  in  death  ! 


INDIAN  WOMAN'S  DEATH  SONG. 


An  Indian  woman,  driven  to  despair  by  her  husband's  desertion  of 
her  for  another  wife,  entered  a  canoe  with  her  children,  and  rowed 
if.  down  the  Mississippi  toward  a  cataract.  Her  voice  was  heard 
from  the  shore  singing  a  mournful  death-song,  until  overpowered  by 
the  sound  of  the  waters  in  which  she  perished.  The  tale  is  related 
in  Long's  Expedition  to  the  source  of  St.  Peter's  River. 


108  RECORDS    OF    WOMAN. 


INDIAN  WOMAN'S  DEATH  SONG. 


Non,  je  nc  puis  vivre  avec  un  coeur  brise.     II  faut  que  je  retrouve 
la  joie,  et  que  je  m'unisse  aux  esprits  librcs  de  Pair. 

Bride  of  Messina, 
Translated  by  MADAME  DE  STAEL. 

Let  not  my  child  be  a  girl,  for  very  sad  is  the  life  of  a  woman. 

The  Prairie. 


DOWN  a  broad  river  of  the  western  wilds, 
Piercing  thick  forest  glooms,  a  light  canoe 
Swept  with  the  current :  fearful  was  the  speed 
Of  the  frail  bark,  as  by  a  tempest's  wing 
Borne  leaf-like  on  to  where  the  mist  of  spray 
Rose  with  the  cataract's  thunder. — Yet  within. 
Proudly,  and  dauntlessly,  and  all  alone, 
Save  that  a  babe  lay  sleeping  at  her  breast, 
A  woman  stood  :  upon  her  Indian  brow 


INDIAN  WOMAN'S  DEATH-SONG.  H)*> 

Sat  a  strange  gladness,  and  her  dark  hair  wav'd 
As  if  triumphantly.     She  press'd  her  child, 
In  its  bright  slumber,  to  her  beating  heart, 
And  lifted  her  sweet  voice,  that  rose  awhile 
Above  the  sound  of  waters,  high  and  clear, 
Wafting  a  wild  proud  strain,  her  song  of  death. 

Roll  swiftly  to  the  Spirit's  land,  thou  mighty  stream 

and  free  ! 
Father  of  ancient  waters,5   roll!    and  bear  our  li\e- 

with  thee  ! 
The  weary  bird  that  storms  have  toss'd,  would  seek 

the  sunshine's  calm, 
And  the  deer  that  hath  the  arrow's  hurt,  flies  to  the 

woods  of  balm. 

Roll  on ! — my  warrior's  eye  hath  look'd  upon  another's 

face, 
And  mine  hath  faded  from  his  soul,  as  fades  a  moon- 

'n  f 

10 


110  RECORDS    OF    WOMAN. 

My  shadow  comes  not  o'er  his  path,  my  whisper  to 

his  dream, 
He    flings    away  the  broken  reed — roll  swifter  yet, 

thou  stream! 


The  voice  that  spoke  of  other  days  is  hush'd  within 

^jjf* 

his  breast, 
But  mine   its   lonely  music  haunts,   anfl  will   not  let 

me  rest ; 
It  sings  a  low  and  mournful   song  of  gladness  that 

is  gone, 
I  cannot  live  without  that  light — Father  of  waves  ! 

roll  on ! 

Will  he  not  miss  the  bounding    step  that  met  him 

from  the  chase  ? 
The  heart  of  love  that  made  his  home  an  ever  sunny 

place  ? 


INDIA 


AN  WOMAN'S  DEATH-SON «,. 

The  hand  that  spread  the  hunter's  board,  and  deck'd 

his  couch  of  yore  ? — 
He  will  not! — roll,  dark  foaming  stream,  on  to  the 

better  shore! 

Some  blessed  fount  amidst  the  woods  of  that  bright 

land  must  flow, 
Whose  waters  from  my  soul  may  lave  the   memory 

of  this  wo ; 
Some  gentle  wind  must  whisper  there,  whose  breath 

may  wail  away 
.The  burden  of  the  heavy  night,  the   sadness  of  the 

day. 

And  thou,  my  babe !  tho'  born,  like  me,  for  woman's 

weary  lot, 

ile  ! — to  that  wasting  of  the  heart,   my  own  !   I 
leave  thee  not ; 


112  iK!>.>    O 

Too  bright  a  thing  art  thou  to  pine  in  aching  love 

away, 
Thy  mother  bears  thee  far,  young  Fawn !  from  sorrow 

and  decay. 

She  bears  thee  to  the  glorious  bowers  where  none  are 

heard  to  weep, 
4nd  where  th'  unkind  one  hath  no  power  again  to 

trouble  sleep  ; 
&nd  where  the  soul  shall  find  its  youth,  as  wakening 

from  a  dream, — 
One  moment,  and  that  realm  is  ours — On,  on,  dark 

rolling  stream  ! 


JOAN  OF  ARC,  IN  RHEIMS. 


Jeanne  d'Arc  avait  eu  la  joie  de  voir  a  Chalons  quel- 
ques  amis  de  son  enfance.  Une  joie  plus  ineffable  encore 
1'attendait  a  Rheiius,  au  sein  de  son  triomphe :  Jacques 
d'Arc,  son  pere  y  se  trouva,  aussitot  que  de  troupes  de 
Charles  VII.  y  furent  entrees  ;  et  comme  les  deux  freres 
de  notre  Heroine  Pavaient  accompagnds,  elle  se  vit,  pour 
un  instant  au  milieu  de  sa  famille,  dans  les  bras  d'un 
pere  vertueux.  Vie  de  Jeanne  (TArc. 


10* 


114  '->r.n?!  01 


JOAN  OF  ARC,  IN  RHEIMS 


Thou  hast  a  charmed  cup,  0  Fame  ! 

A  draught  that  mantles  high, 
And  seems  to  lift  this  earth-born  frame 

Above  mortality : 
Away  !  to  me — a  woman — bring 
Sweet  waters  from  affection's  spring. 


THAT  was  a  joyous  day  in  Rheims  of  old, 
When  peal  on  peal  of  mighty  music  roll'd 
Forth  from  her  throng'd  cathedral ;  while  around, 
A  multitude,  whose  billows  made  no  sound, 
Chain'd  to  a  hush  of  wonder,  tho'  elate 
With  victory,  listen'd  at  their  temple's  gate. 


JOAN    OF  ARC,  IN   RHFi  I  lo 

And  what  was  done  within  ? — within,  the  light 

Thro'  the  rich  gloom  of  pictured  windows  flowing, 
Tinged  with  soft  awfulness  a  stately  sight, 

The  chivalry  of  France,  their  proud  heads  bowing 
In  martial  vassalage  ! — while  midst  that  ring, 
And  shadow'd  by  ancestral  tombs,  a  king 
Receiv'd  his  birthright's  crown.     For  this,  the  hymn 

Swell'd  out  like  rushing  waters,  and  the  day 
With  the  sweet  censer's  misty  breath  grew  dim, 

As  thro'  long  aisles  it  floated  o'er  th'  array 
Of  arms  and  sweeping  stoles.     But  who,  alone 
And  unapproach'd,  beside  the  altar-stone, 
With  the  white  banner,  forth  like  sunshine  streaming, 
And  the  gold  helm,  thro'  clouds  of  fragrance  gleaming, 
Silent  and  radiant  stood  ? — the  helm  was  rais'd, 
And  the  fair  face  reveal'd,  that  upward  gaz'd, 

Intensely  worshipping  : — a  still,  clear  face, 
Youthful,  but  brightly  solemn ! — Woman's  cheek 
And  brow  were  there,  in  deep  devotion  meek. 

Yet  glorified  with  inspiration's  trace 


116  RECORDS    OP    W031 

On  its  pure  paleness  ;  while,  enthron'd  above. 

The  pictur'd  virgin,  with  her  smile  of  love, 

Seem'd  bending  o'er  her  votaress. — That  slight  form  ! 

Was  that  the  leader  thro'  the  battle  storm  ? 

Had  the  soft  light  in  that  adoring  eye, 

Guided  the  warrior  where  the  swords  flash'd  high  ? 

'Twas  so,  even  so  ! — and  thou,  the  shepherd's  child, 

Joanne,  the  lowly  dreamer  of  the  wild  ! 

Never  before,  and  never  since  that  hour, 

Hath  woman,  mantled  with  victorious  power, 

Stood  forth  as  thou  beside  the  shrine  didst  stand, 

Holy  amidst  the  knighthood  of  the  land  ; 

And  beautiful  with  joy  and  with  renown, 

Lift  thy  white  banner  o'er  the  olden  crown, 

Ransom'd  for  France  by  thee  !  , 

The  rites  are  done. 

Now  let  the  dome  with  trumpet-notes  be  shaken, 
And  bid  the  echoes  of  the  tombs  awaken, 

And  come  thou  forth,  that  Heaven's  rejoicing  sun 


.JOAN    OF   ARC,   IN    1U1EIMS.  117 

May  give  thee  welcome  from  thine  own  blue  skies, 

Daughter  of  victory  ! — a  triumphant  strain, 
A  proud  rich  stream  of  warlike  melodies, 

Gush'd  thro'  the  portals  of  the  antique  fane, 
And  forth  she  came. — Then  rose  a  nation's  sound — 
Oh  !  what  a  power  to  bid  the  quick  heart  bound, 
The  wind  bears  onward  with  the  stormy  cheer 
Man  gives  to  glory  on  her  high  career  ! 
I*  there  indeed  such  power  ? — far  deeper  dwells 
In  one  kind  household  voice,  to  reach  the  cells 
Whence  happiness  flows  forth ! — The  shouts  that  fill'd 
The  hollow  heaven  tempestuously,  were  still'd 
One  moment ;  and  in  that  brief  pause,  the  tone, 
As  of  a  breeze  that  o'er  her  home  had  blown, 
Sank  on  the  bright  maid's  heart. — u  Joanne  !" — Who 

spoke 

Like  those  whose  childhood  with  her  childhood  grew 
Under  one  roof? — "Joanne  !" — that  murmur  broke 
With   sounds  of  weeping  forth! — She  turn'd — sho 
knew 


118  RECORDS    OF    WOMAN. 

Beside  her,  mark'd  from  all  the  thousands  there, 

In  the  calm  beauty  of  his  silver  hair, 

The  stately  shepherd  ;  and  the  youth,  whose  joy 

From  his  dark  eye  flash'd  proudly  ;  and  the  boy, 

The  youngest-born,  that  ever  lov'd  her  best ; 

"  Father  !  and  ye,  my  brothers  !" — On  the  breast 

Of  that  grey  sire  she  sank — and  swiftly  back, 

Ev'n  in  an  instant,  to  their  native  track 

Her  free  thoughts    flowed. — She    saw  the  pomp  no 

more — 

The  plumes,  the  banners  : — to  her  cabin-door, 
And  to  the  Fairy's  fountain  in  the  glade,6 
Where  her  young  sisters  by  her  side  had  play'd, 
And  to  her  hamlet's  chapel,  where  it  rose 
Hallowing  the  forest  unto  deep  repose, 
Her  spirit  turn'd. — The  very  wood-note,  sung 

In  early  spring-time  by  the  bird,  which  dwelt 
Where  o'er  her  father's  roof  the  beech-leaves  hung, 

Was  in  her  heart  ;  a  music  heard  and  felt, 


JOAN   OF  ARC,   IN    RHEIMS.  119 

Winning  her  back  to  nature. — She  unbound 
The  helm  of  many  battles  from  her  head, 

And,  with  her  bright  locks  bow'd  to  sweep  the  groundf 
Lifting  her  voice  up,  wept  for  joy,  and  said, — 

"  Bless  me,  my  father,  bless  me  !  and  with  thee, 

To  the  still  cabin  and  the  beechen-tree, 

Let  me  return !" 

Oh !  never  did  thine  eye 
Thro'  the  green  haunts  of  happy  infancy 
Wander  again,  Joanne  ! — too  much  of  fame 
Had  shed  its  radiance  on  thy  peasant  name  ; 
And  bought  alone  by  gifts  beyond  all  price, 
The  trusting  heart's  repose,  the  paradise 
Of  home  with  all  its  loves,  doth  fate  allow 
The  crown  of  glory  unto  woman's  brow. 


120  RECORDS    OF    " 


PAULINE 


To  die  for  what  we  love  ! — Oh!  there  is  powt; 
In  the  true  heart,  and  pride,  and  joy,  for  this  : 
It  is  to  live  without  the  vanish'd  light 
That  strength  is  needed. 

Cosi  trapassa  al  trapassar  d'un  Giorno 
Delia  vita  mortal  il  fiore  e'l  verde. 

TABSO 


ALONG  the  star-lit  Seine  went  music  swelling, 
Till  the  air  thrill'd  with  its  exulting  mirth  ; 

Proudly  it  floated,  even  as  if  no  dwelling 

For  cares  or  stricken  hearts  were  found  on  earth 

And  a  glad  sound  the  measure  lightly  beat, 

A  happy  chime  of  many  dancing  *'• 


PAULIiSl..  12  i 

1'or  in  a  palace  of  the  land  that  night, 

Lamps,  and  fresh  roses,  and  green  leaves  were  hung, 
And  from  the  painted  walls  a  stream  of  light 

On  flying  forms  beneath  soft  splendour  flung  : 
But  loveliest  far  amidst  the  revel's  pride 
Was  one,  the  lady  from  the  Danube-side.7 

Pauline,  the  meekly  bright ! — tho'  now  no  more 

Her  clear  eye  flash'd  with  youth's  all  tameless  glee, 
Yet  something  holier  than  its  day  spring  wore, 

There  in  soft  rest  lay  beautiful  to  see  ; 
A  charm  with  graver,  tenderer,  sweetness  fraught—- 
The blending  of  deep  love  and  matron  thought. 

Thro'  the  gay  throng  she  moved,  serenely  fair, 
And  such  calm  joy  as  fills  a  moonlight  sky. 

Sate  on  her  brow  beneath  its  graceful  hair, 
As  her  young  daughter  in  the  dance  went  by. 

With  the  fleet  step  of  one  that  yet  hath  known 

Smiles  and  kind  voices  in  this  world  alone. 
11 


122  RECORDS    OF   WOMAN. 

Lurk'd  there  no  secret  boding  in  her  breast  ? 

Did  no  faint  whisper  warn  of  evil  nigh  ? 
Such  oft  awake  when  most  the  heart  seems  blest 

Midst  the  light  laughter  of  festivity : 
Whence  come  those  tones  ! — Alas  !  enough  we  know, 
To  mingle  fear  with  all  triumphal  show  ! 

Who  spoke  of  evil,  when  young  feet  were  flying 
In  fairy  rings  around  the  echoing  hall  ? 

Soft  airs  thro'  braided  locks  in  perfume  sighing. 
Glad  pulses  beating  unto  music's  call  ? 

Silence ! — the  minstrels  pause — and  hark !  a  sound, 

A  strange  quick  rustling  which  their  notes  had  drown'd ! 

And  lo !  a  light  upon  the  dancers  breaking — 
Not  such  their  clear  and  silvery  lamps  had  shed ! 

From  the  gay  dream  of  revelry  awaking, 

One  moment  holds  them  still  in  breathless  dread  : 


PAULINE.  1 

The  wild  fierce  lustre  grows — then  bursts  a  cry — 
Fire  !  thro'  the  hall  and  round  it  gathering — fly  ! 

And  forth  they  rush — as  chased  by  sword  and  spear 
To  the  green  coverts  of  the  garden-bowers  ; 

A  gorgeous  masque  of  pageantry  and  fear, 

Startling  the  birds  and  trampling  down  the  flowers 

While  from  the  dome  behind,  red  sparkles  driven 

Pierce  the  dark  stillness  of  the  midnight  heaven. 

And  where  is  she,  Pauline? — the  hurrying  throng 
Have  swept  her  onward,  as  a  stormy  blast 

Might  sweep  some  faint  o'erwearied  bird  along — - 
Till  now  the  threshold  of  that  death  is  past, 

And  free  she  stands  beneath  the  starry  skies, 

Calling  her  child — but  no  sweet  voice  replies* 


124 

•'Bertha!  where   art  thou  ] — Speak,   oh!   speak,   my 
own !" 

Alas !  unconscious  of  her  pangs  the  while, 

i 
The  gentle  girl,  in  fear's  cold  grasp  alone, 

Powerless  hath  sunk  within  the  blazing  pile  ; 
A  young  bright  form,  deck'd  gloriously  for  death, 
With   flowers  all  shrinking   from   the   flame's   fierce 
breath ! 

But  oh !  thy  strength,  deep  love  ! — there  is  no  power 
To  stay  the  mother  from  that  rolling  grave, 

Tho'  fast  on  high  the  fiery  volumes  tower, 

And  forth,  like  banners,  from  each  lattice  wave  ; 

Back,  back  she  rushes  thro'  a  host  combined — 

Mighty  is  anguish,  with  affection  twined  ! 

And  what  bold  step  may  follow,  midst  the  roar 
Of  the  red  billows,  o'er  their  prey  that  rise  ? 

None  ! — Courage  there  stood  still — and  never  more 
Did  those  fair  forms  emerge  on  human  eye?  ! 


PAULINE. 


Was  one  brief  meeting  theirs,  one  wild  farewell  ? 
And  died  they  heart  to  heart?  —  Oh!  who  can  tell? 


Freshly  and  cloudlessly  the  morning  broke 

On  that  sad  palace,  midst  its  pleasure-shades  ; 
Its  painted  roofs  had  sunk — yet  black  with  smoke 

* 

And  lonely  stood  its  marble  colonnades  : 
But  y ester-eve  their  shafts  with  wreaths  were  bound  !- 
Now  lay  the  scene  one  shrivell'd  scroll  around  ! 

t 

And  bore  the  ruins  no  recording  trace 

Of  all  that  woman's  heart  had  dared  and  done  ? 

Yes !  there  were  gems  to  mark  its  mortal  place, 
That  forth  from  dust  and  ashes  dimly  shone  ! 

Those  had  the  mother  on  her  gentle  breast, 

Worn  round  her  child's  fair  image,  there  at  rest, 


11* 


i  •_!(>  -MI P:S   or   WOM  \\  . 

\iul  \hc\-  wore  all  ! — the  tender  and  the  triu- 

Left  this  alone  her  sacrifice  to  prove, 
Hallowing  the  spot  where  mirth  once  lightly  flew, 

To  deep,  lone,  chasten'd  thoughts  of  grief  and  love. 
Oh !  we  have  need  of  patient  faith  below, 
To  clear  away  the  mysteries  of  such  wo  ! 


JUANA. 


Juana,  mother  of  the  Emperor  Charles  V.,  upon  the 
death  of  her  husband,  Philip  the  Handsome  of  Austria, 
who  had  treated  her  with  uniform  neglect,  had  lu's  body 
laid  upon  a  bed  of  state  in  a  magnificent  dress,  and  being 
possessed  with  the  idea  that  it  would  revive,  watched  it 
for  a  length  of  time  incessantly,  waiting  for  the  moment 
of  returning  life. 


RECOKD?  OK 


JUANA 


It  is  but  dust  thou  look'st  upon.     This  love, 
This  wild  and  passionate  idolatry, 
What  doth  it  in  the  shadow  of  the  grave  1 
Gather  it  back  within  thy  lonely  heart, 
So  must  it  ever  end :  too  much  we  givr 
Unto  the  things  that  perish. 


THE  night-wind  shook  the  tapestry  round  an  ancient 

palace-room, 
And  torches,   as   it  rose    and  fell,   waved    thro'  the 

gorgeous  gloom, 
And  o'er  a  shadowy  regal  couch  threw  fitful  gleams 

and  red, 
Where  a  woman  with  long  raven  hair  sat  watching  by 

the  dead.  • 


12!) 

Pale    shone  the  features  of  the  dead,  yet    glorious 

still  to  see, 
Like  a  hunter  or  a  chief  struck  down  while  his  heart 

and  step  were  free  ; 
No   shroud  he  wore,  no  robe   of  death,   but    there 

majestic  lay, 
Proudly  and  sadly  glittering  in  royalty's  array. 

But  she  that  with  the  dark  hair  watch'd  by  the  cold 

slumberer's  side, 
On  her  wan  cheek  no  beauty  dwelt,  and  in  her  garb 

no  pride  ; 

Only  her  full  impassion'd  eyes  as  o'er  that  clay  she  bent, 
A  wildness  and  a  tenderness  in  strange  resplendence 

blent. 

And  as  the  swift  thoughts  cross'd  her  soul,  like  shadows 

of  a  cloud, 
Amidst  the  silent  room  of  death,  the  dreamer  spoke 

aloud  : 


130  RECORDS    OF 

She  spoke  to  him  who  could  not  hear,  and  cried, 

"  Thou  yet  wilt  wake, 
And  learn  my  watchings  and  my  tears,  belov'd  one  ! 

for  thy  sake. 

"  They  told  me  this  was  death,  but  well  I  knew  it 

could  not  be  ; 
Fairest  and  stateliest  of  the  earth  !  who  spoke  of  death 

for  thee  ? 
They  would  have  wrapt  the  funeral  shroud  thy  gallant 

form  around, 
But  I  forbade — and  there  thou  art,  a  monarch,  rob'd 

and  crown'd  ! 

» 

"  With  all  thy  bright  locks  gleaming  still,  their  coronal 

beneath, 
And  thy  brow  so  proudly  beautiful — who  said  that 

this  was  death? 


JUANA.  131 

*< 

Silence  hath  been  upon  thy  lips,  and  stillness  round 

thee  long, 
But  the  hopeful  spirit  in  my  breast  is  all  undimm'd 

and  strong. 

"  I  know  thou  hast  not  lov'd  me  yet ;  I  am  not  fair 

like  thee, 
The  very  glance  of  whose  clear  eye  threw  round  a 

light  of  glee  ! 
A  frail  and  drooping  form  is  mine — a  cold  unsmiling 

cheek, 
Oh  !   I  have  but  a  woman's  heart,  wherewith  thy  heart 

to  seek. 

"  But  when  thou  wak'st,  my  prince,  my  lord  !  and 

hear'st  how  I  have  kept 
A  lonely  vigil  by  thy  side,  and  o'er  thee  pray'd  and 

wept : 


\ 

132  RECORDS    OF    WOMAf>* 

How  in  one  long  deep  dream  of  thee  my  nights  and 

days  have  past, 
Surely  that  humble,  patient  love  must  win  back  love 

at  last! 

• 
u  And  thou  wilt  smile — my  own,  my  own,  shall  be 

the  sunny  smile, 
Which  brightly    fell,    and   joyously,    on    all  but   me 

erewhile  ! 
No   more   in  vain  affection's  thirst    my  weary  soul 

shall  pine — 
Oh !  years  of  hope  deferr'd  were  paid  by  one  fond 

glance  of  thine  ! 

u  Thou'lt  meet  me  with  that  radiant  look  when  thou 

comest  from  the  chase, 
For  me,  for  me,  in  festal  halls  it  shall  kindle  o'er 

thy  face  ! 


JliANA.  133 

Thou'lt  reck  no  more  tho'  beauty's  gift  mine  aspect 

may  not  bless  ; 
In  thy  kind  eyes  this  deep,  deep  love,  shall  give  me 

loveliness. 

w'  But  wake  !   my  heart   within  me  burns,  yet  once 

more  to  rejoice 
In  the  sound  to  which  it  ever  leap'd,  the  music  of 

thy  voice  : 

Awake  !  I  sit  in  solitude,  that  thy  first  look  and  tone, 
And  the  gladness  of  thine  opening  eyes  may  all  be 

mine  alone." 

In  the  still  chambers  of  the  dust,  thus  pour'd  forth 

day  by  day, 
The  passion  of  that  loving  dream  from  a  troubled 

soul  found  way, 


12 


134  RECORDS    OF    WOMAN". 

Until  the  shadows  of  the  grave  had  swept  o'er  every 

grace, 
Left  midst  the  awfulness  of  death  on  the  princely  form 

and  face. 

And  slowly  broke  the  fearful  truth  upon  the  watch- 
er's breast, 

And  they  bore  away  the  royal  dead  with  requiems 
to  his  rest, 

With  banners  and  with  knightly  plumes  all  waving  in 
the  wind — 

But  a  woman's  broken  heart  was  left  in  its  lone  despair 
behind. 


AMERICAN  FOREST  GIRL. 


THE  AMERICAN  FOREST  GIRL, 


A  fearful  gift  upon  thy  heart  is  laid, 
Woman ! — a  power  to  suffer  and  to  love, 
Therefore  thou  so  canst  pity. 


WILDLY  and  mournfully  the  Indian  drum 

On  the  deep  hush  of  moonlight  forests  broke ; — 
"  Sing  us  a  death-song,  for  thine  hour  is  come," — 

So  the  red  warriors  to  their  captive  spoke. 
Still,  and  amidst  those  dusky  forms  alone, 

A  youth,  a  fair-hair'd  youth  of  England  stood, 
Like  a  king's  son  ;  tho'  from  his  cheek  had  flown 

The  mantling  crimson  of  the  island-blood, 
And  his  press'd  lips  look'd  marble. — Fiercely  bright, 
And  high  around  him,  blaz'd  the  fires  of  night, 


136  RECORDS    OF 

Hocking  beneath  the  cedars  to  and  iro, 

As  the  wind  pass'd,  and  with  a  fitful  glow 

Lighting  the  victim's  face  : — But  who  could  tell 

Of  what  within  his  secret  heart  befel, 

Known  but  to  heaven  that  hour? — Perchance  a  thought 

Of  his  far  home  then  so  intensely  wrought. 

That  its  full  image,  pictured  to  his  eye 

On  the  dark  ground  of  mortal  agony, 

Rose  clear  as  day  ! — and  he  might  see  the  band, 

Of  his  young  sisters  wandering  hand  in  hand, 

Where  the  laburnums  droop'd  ;  or  haply  binding 

The  jasmine,  up  the  door's  low  pillars  winding ; 

Or,  as  day  clos'd  upon  their  gentle  mirth, 

Gathering  with  braided  hair,  around  the  hearth 

Where  sat  their  mother  ; — and  that  mother's  face 

Its  grave  sweet  smile  yet  wearing  in  the  place 

Where  so  it  ever  smiled  ! — Perchance  the  prayer 

Learn'd  at  her  knee  came  back  on  his  despair : 


THE  AMERICAN  FOREST  GIRL.  137 

The  blessing  from  her  voice,  the  very  tone 

Of  her  "  Good-night"  might  hreathe  from    boyhood 

gone ! — 
He  started  and  look'd  up  : — thick  cypress  boughs 

Full  of  strange  sound,  wav'd  o'er  him,  darkly  red 
In  the  broad  stormy  firelight ; — savage  brows, 

With  tall  plumes  crested  and  wild  hues  o'erspread, 
Girt  him  like  feverish  phantoms  ;  and  pale  stars 
Look'd  thro*  the  branches  as  thro'  dungeon  bars, 
Shedding  no  hope. — He  knew,  he  felt  his  doom — 
Oh  !  what  a  tale  to  shadow  with  its  gloom 
That  happy  hall  in  England  ! — Idle  fear  ! 
Would  the  winds  tell  it  ] — Who  might  dream  or  hear 
The  secret  of  the  forests  ? — To  the  stake 

They  bound  him  ;    and  that  proud    young  soldier 

strove 
His  father's  spirit  in  his  breast  to  wake, 

Trusting  to  die  in  silence  !     He,  the  love 
Of  many  hearts  ! — the  fondly  rear'd, — the  fair, 

Gladdening  all  eyes  to  see  ! — And  fetter'd  there 
12* 


I  v\. 

*» 

He  stood  beside  his  death-pyre,  and  the  brand 
Flamed  up  to  light  it,  in  the  chieftain's  hand. 
He  thought  upon  his  God. — Hush  !  hark  ! — a  cry 
Breaks  on  the  stern  and  dread  solemnity, — 
A  step  hath  pierc'd  the  ring  ! — Who  dares  intrude 
On  the  dark  hunters  in  their  vengeful  mood  ? — 
A  girl — a  young  slight  girl — a  fawn-like  child 
Of  green  Savannas  and  the  leafy  wild, 
Springing  unmark'd  till  then,  as  some  lone  flower, 
Happy  because  the  sunshine  is  its  dower  ; 
Yet  one  that  knew  how  early  tears  are  shed, — 
For  hers  had  mourn'd  a  playmate  brother  dead. 

She  had  sat  gazing  on  the  victim  long, 
Until  the  pity  of  her  soul  grew  strong  ; 
And,  by  its  passion's  deepening  fervour  sway'd, 
Ev'n  to  the  stake  she  rush'd,  and  gently  laid 
His  bright  head  on  her  bosom,  and  around 
His  form  her  slender  arms  to  shield  it  wound 


1HE  AMERICAN   FOREST  <-l  i  3!> 

Like  close  Liannes  ;  then  rais'd  her  glittering  eye 
.\nd  clear-toned  voice  that  said,  "  He  shalt  not  die  !" 

"  He  shall  not  die  !"— the  gloomy  forest  thrill'd 
To  that  sweet  sound.     A  sudden  wonder  fell 
On  the  fierce  throng ;  and  heart  and  hand  were  still'd, 

Struck  down,  as  by  the  whisper  of  a  spell. 
They  gaz'd, — their  dark  souls  bow'd  before  the  maid, 
She  of  the  dancing  step  in  wood  and  glade  ! 
Vnd,  as  her  cheek  flushed  thro'  its  olive  hue, 
As  her  black  tresses  to  the  night-wind  flew, 
Something  o'ermaster'd  them  from  that  young  mien — 
Something  of  heaven,  in  silence  felt  and  seen  ; 
And,  seeming,  to  their  child-like  faith,  a  token 
That  the  Great  Spirit  by  her  voice  had  spoken. 

They  loos'd  the  bonds  that  held  their  captive's  breath  ; 
From  his  pale  lips  they  took  the  cup  of  death  ; 
They  quench'd  the  brand  beneath  the  cypress  tree  ; 
"Away,"  they  cried,  "young  stranger,  thou  art  free  !" 


RECORDS  or    - 


COSTANZA, 


Art  thou  then  desolate? 

Of  friends,  of  hopes  forsaken? — Come  to  me  ! 

I  am  thine  own.— Have  trusted  hearts  prov'd  false/ 

Flatterers  deceiv'd  thee  1     Wanderer,  come  to  me ! 

Why  didst  thou  ever  leave  me  ?     Know'st  thou  all 

I  would  have  borne,  and  call'd  it  joy  to  bear, 

For  thy  sake  ?     Know'st  thou  that  thy  voice  had  power 

To  shake  me  with  a  thrill  of  happiness 

By  one  kind  tone  ? — to  fill  mine  eyes  with  tears 

Of  yearning  love  ?     And  thou — oh !  thou  didst  throw 

That  crush'd  affection  back  upon  my  heart  •  — 

Yet  come  to  me  ! — it  died  not. 


SHE  knelt  in  prayer.     A  stream  of  sunset  fell 
Thro'  the  stain'd  window  of  her  lonely  cell, 
And  with  its  rich,  deep,  melancholy  glow 
Flushing  her  cheek  and  pale  Madonna-brow, 


\NZA 


141 


While  o'er  her  long  hair's  flowing  jet  it  threw 
Bright  waves  of  gold — the  autumn  forest's  hue — 
Seem'd  all  a  vision's  mist  of  glory,  spread 
By  painting's  touch  around  some  holy  head, 
Virgin's  or  fairest  martyr's.     In  her  eye, 
Which  glanced  as  dark  clear  water  to  the  sky, 
What  solemn  fervour  lived  !     And  yet  what  wo. 
Lay  like  some  buried  thing,  still  seen  below 
The  glassy  tide !     Oh  !  he  that  could  reveal 
What  life  had  taught  that  chasten'd  heart  to  feel, 
Might  speak  indeed  of  woman's  blighted  years, 
And  wasted  love,  and  vainly  bitter  tears  ! 
But  she  had  told  her  griefs  to  heaven  alone, 
And  of  the  gentle  saint  no  more  was  known, 
Than  that  she  fled  the  world's  cold  breath,  and  made 
A  temple  of  the  pine  and  chestnut  shade, 
Filling  its  depths  with  soul,  whene'er  her  hymn 
Rose  thro'  each  murmur  of  the  green,  and  dim, 
And  ancient  solitude  ;  where  hidden  streams 
\Vent  moaning  thro'  the  grass,  like  sounds  in  dreams, 


OF   \\  <•».••• 

.Mu>i«:  lor  \vcaiv  hoart>  !      I\lid.-t  lr.i\os  and  ilov. 

She  dwelt,  and  knew  all  secrets  of  their  powers. 

All  nature's  balms,  wherewith  her  gliding  tread 

To  the  sick  peasant  on  his  lowly  bed, 

Came,  and  brought  hope  ;  while  scarce  of  mortal  birth 

He  deem'd  the  pale  fair  form,  that  held  on  earth 

Communion  but  with  grief. 

Ere  long  a  cell, 

A  rock-hewn  chapel  rose,  a  cross  of  stone 
Gleam'd  thro'  the  dark  trees  o'er  a  sparkling  well, 

And  a  sweet  voice,  of  rich,  yet  mournful  tone. 
Told  the  Calabrian  wilds,  that  duly  there 
Costanza  lifted  her  sad  heart  in  prayer. 
And  now  'twas  prayer's  own  hour.     That  voice  again 
Thro'  the  dim  foliage  sent  its  heavenly  strain, 
That  made  the  cypress  quiver  where  it  stood 
In  day's  last  crimson  soaring  from  the  wood 
Like  spiry  flame.     But  as  the  bright  sun  set, 
Other  and  wilder  sounds  in  tumult  met 


COSTANZA;  143 

The  flouting  song.  Strange  sounds !—  the  trumpet's  peal, 
Made  hollow  by  the  rocks  ;  the  clash  of  steel, 
The  rallying  war-cry. — In  the  mountain-pass, 
There  had  been  combat ;  blood  was  on  the  grass, 
Banners  had  strewn  the  waters  ;  chiefs  lay  dying, 
And  the  pine-branches  crashed  before  the  flying. 

And  all  was  chang'd  within  the  still  retreat, 

Costanza's  home  : — there  enter'd  hurrying  feet, 

Dark  looks  of  shame  and  sorrow ;  mail-clad  men. 

Stern  fugitives  from  that  wild  battle-glen, 

Scaring  the  ringdoves  from  the  porch-roof,  bore 

A  wounded  warrior  in  :  the  rocky  floor 

Gave  back  deep  echoes  to  his  clanging  sword, 

As  there  they  laid  their  leader,  and  implor'd 

The  sweet  saint's  prayers  to  heal  him  ;  then  for  flight. 

Thro'  the  wide  forest  and  the  mantling  night, 

Sped  breathlessly  again, — They  pass'd — but  he, 

The  stateliest  of  a  host — a^as  !  to  ge€ 
I 


144  KECOKDS    OF    \VO1M 

What  mother's  eyes  have  watch'd  in  rosy  sleep 
Till  joy,  for  very  fulness,  turn'd  to  weep, 
Thus  changed ! — a  fearful  thing !     His  golden  crest 
"Was  shiver'd,  and  the  bright  scarf  on  his  breast — 
Some  costly  love-gift — rent : — but  what  of  these  ? 
There  were  the  clustering  raven-locks — the  breeze 
As  it  came  in  thro'  lime  and  myrtle  flowers, 
Might  scarcely  lift  them — steep'd  in  bloody  showers 
So  heavily  upon  the  pallid  clay 
Of  the  damp  cheek  they  hung !  the  eye's  dark  ray — 
Where  was  it  1 — and  the  lips  ! — they  gasp'd  apart, 
With  their  light  cufve,  as  from  the  chisel's.,  art, 
Still  proudly  beautiful !  but  that  white  hue — 
Was  it  not  death's  ?— that  stillness— that  cold  dew 
On  the  scarr'd  forehead  ?     No  !  his  spirit  broke 
From  its  deep  trance  ere  long,  yet  but  awoke 
To  wander  in  wild  dreams  ;  and  there  he  lay, 
By  the  fierce  fever  as  a  green  reed  shaken, 
The  haughty  chief  of  thousands— the  forsaken 


CO/STAN  145 

Of  all  save  one  ! — She  fled  not.     Day  by  day-— 
Such  hours  are  woman's  birthright — she,  unknown. 
Kept  watch  beside  him,  fearless  and  alone  ; 
Binding  his  wounds,  and  oft  in  silence  laving 
His  brow  with  tears  that  mourn'd  the  strong  man's 

raving. 

He  felt  them  not,  nor  mark'd  the  light  veil'd  form 
Still  hovering  nigh  ;  yet  sometimes,  when  that  storm 

Of  frenzy  sank,  her  voice,  in  tones  as  low 
As  a  young  mother's  by  the  cradle  singing, 
Would  sooth  him  with  sweet  aves,  gently  bringing 

Moments  of  slumber,  when  the  fiery  glow 
Ebb'd  from  his  hollow  cheek. 

At  last  faint  gleam  > 

Of  memory  dawn'd  upon  the  cloud  of  dreams. 
And  feebly  lifting,  as  a  child,  his  head, 
And  gazing  round  him  from  his  leafy  bed, 
He  murmur'd  forth,  "  Where  am  I  ?     What  soft  strain 
Pass'd,  like  a  breeze,  across  my  burning  bram  ? 
13 


146  oKDS    OF    AVCOI 

Back  i'roin  my  youth  it  floated,  with  a  tone 
Of  life's  first  music,  and  a  thought  of  one — 
"Where  is  she  now  ?  and  where  the  gauds  of  pride 
Whose  hollow  splendour  lured  me  from  her  side  ? 
All  lost ! — and  this  is  death ! — I  cannot  die 
Without  forgiveness  from  that  mournful  eye  ! 
Away  !  the  earth  hath  lost  her.     Was  she  born 
To  brook  abandonment,  to  strive  with  scorn  ? 
My  first,  my  holiest  love  ! — her  broken  heart 
Lies  low,  and  I — unpardon'd  I  depart." 

But  then  Costanza  rais'd  the  shadowy  v<  ii 
From  her  dark  locks  and  features  brightly  pal*-. 
And  stood  before  him  with  a  smile — oh  !  ne'er 
Did  aught  that  smiled  so  much  of  sadness  wear — 
And  said,  "  Cesario !  look  on  me  ;  I  live 
To  say  my  heart  hath  bled,  and  can  forgive. 
I  loved  thee  with  such  worship,  such  deep  trust 
As  should  be  Heaven's  alone — and  Heaven  is  jus? 
I  bless  thee — be  at  peace  !" 


^  /.  A  .  1"17 

But  o'er  his  frame 

Too  fast  the  strong  tide  rush'd — the  sudden  shame, 
The  joy,  th'  amaze  ! — he  bow'd  his  head — it  fell 
On  the  wrong'd  bosom  which  had  lov'd  so  well : 
And  love  still  perfect,  gave  him  refuge  there, — 
His  last  faint  breath  just  wav'd  her  floating  hair. 


MADELINE. 

A    DOMESTIC    TALE.* 


Who  should  it  be  ? — Where  shouldst  thou  look  for  kindness  ? 
When  ive  arc  sick  where  can  we  turn  for  succour, 
When  we  are  wretched  where  can  we  complain  ; 
And  when  the  world  looks  cold  and  surly  on  us, 
Where  can  we  go  to  meet  a  warmer  eye 

With  such  sure  confidence  as  to  a  mother  ? 

JOANNA  BAILLIE. 


"  MY  child,  my  child,  thou  leav'st  me  !— I  shall  hear 
The  gentle  voice  no  more  that  blest  mine  ear 
"With  its  first  utterance  ;  I  shall  miss  the  sound 
Of  thy  light  step  amidst  the  flowers  around, 

*  Orisinallv  published  in  the  Literary  Souvenir  for  1828. 


MADELINE, 


14!) 


And  thy  soft  breathing  hymn  at  twilight's  close, 

And  thy  "  Good-night"  at  parting  for  repose. 

Under  the  vine-leaves  I  shall  sit  alone, 

And  the  low  breeze  will  have  a  mournful  tone 

Amidst  their  tendrils,  while  I  think  of  thee, 

My  child  !  and  thou,  along  the  moonlight  sea, 

With  a  soft  sadness  haply  in  thy  glance, 

Shalt  watch  thine  own,  thy  pleasant  land  of  France, 

Fading  to  air. — Yet  blessings  with  thee  go  ! 

Love  guard  thee,  gentlest !  and  the  exile's  wo 

From  thy  young  heart  be  far ! — And  sorrow  not 

For  me,  sweet  daughter  !  in  my  lonely  lot, 

God  shall  be  with  me. — Now  farewell,  farewell ! 

Thou  that  hast  been  what  words  may  never  tell 

Unto  thy  mother's  bosom,  since  the  days 

When  thou  wert  pillow'd  there,  and  wont  to  raise 

In  sudden  laughter  thence  thy  loving  eye 

That  still  sought  mine  : — these  moments  are  gone  by, 

Thou  too  must  go,  my  flower  ! — Yet  with  thee  dwell 

The  peace  of  God ! — One,  one  more  gaze — farewell !" 
13* 


150  RL CORDS  01    AVO.\iA.N. 

This  was  a  mother's  parting  with  her  child, 

A  young  meek  Bride  on  whom  fair  fortune  sinil'd. 

And  wooed  her  with  a  voice  of  love  away 

From  childhood's  home  ;  yet  there,  with  fond  delay 

She  linger'd  on  the  threshold,  heard  the  note 

Of  her  caged  bird  thro3  trellis'd  rose-leaves  float, 

And  fell  upon  her  mother's  neck,  and  wept, 

Whilst  old  remembrances,  that  long  had  slept, 

Gush'd  o'er  her  soul,  and  many  a  vanish'd  day. 

As  in  one  picture  traced,  before  her  lay. 

But  the  farewell  was  said  ;  and  on  the  deep, 
When  its  breast  heav'd  in  sunset's  golden  sleep. 
With  a  calm'd  heart,  young  Madeline  ere  long 
Pour'd  forth  her  own  sweet  solemn  vesper-song. 
Breathing  of  home  :  thro'  stillness  heard  afar, 
And  duly  rising  with  the  first  pale  star, 
That  voice  was  on  the  waters  ;  till  at  last 
Tho  sounding  ocean-solitudes  were  pass'd, 


MADELi:  151 

And  the  bright  land  was  reach'd,  the  youthful  world 
That  glows  along  the  West :  the  sails  were  furl'd 
In  its  clear  sunshine,  and  the  gentle  bride 
Look'd  on  the  home  that  promised  hearts  untried 
A  bower  of  bliss  to  come. —  ila-  !   \\<.  LJ.CC 
The  map  of  our  own  paths,  and  long  ere  years 
"With  their  dull  steps  the  brilliant  lines  efface, 
On  sweeps  the  storm,  and  blots  them  out  with  tears. 
That  home  was  darken'd  soon  :  the  summer  breeze 
Welcomed  with  death  the  wanderers  from  the  seas, 
Death  unto  one,  and  anguish  how  forlorn ! 
To  her,  that  widow'd  in  her  marriage-morn, 
Sat  in  her  voiceless  dwelling,  whence  with  him, 

Her  bosom's  first  belov'd,  her  friend  and  guide, 
Joy  had  gone  forth,  and  left  the  green  earth  dim, 

As  from  the  sun  shut  out  on  every  side, 
By  the  close  veil  of  misery  ! — Oh !  but  ill, 

When  with  rich  hopes  o'erfraught3  the  young  high  heart 

Bears  its  first  blow  ! — it  knows  not  yet  the  part 
Which  life  will  teach—to  suffer  and  be  still, 


152  RLCORDS    OF    WOMAN 

And  with  submissive  love  to  count  the  flower.- 
Which  yet  are  spared,  and  thro'  the  future  hour*? 
To  send  no  busy  dream  ! — She  had  n«»t  learn'd 
Of  sorrow  till  that  hour,  and  therefore  turn'd, 
In  weariness  from  life  :  then  came  th?  unrest, 
The  heart-sick  yearning  of  the  exile's  breast, 
The  haunting  sounds  of  voices  far  away, 
And  household  steps  ;  until  at  last  she  lay 
On  her  lone  couch  of  sickness,  lost  in  dreams 
Of  the  gay  vineyards  and  blue-rushing  stream  y 
In  her  own  sunny  land,  and  murmuring  oft 
Familiar  names,  in  accents  wild,  yet  soft, 
To  strangers  round  that  bed,  who  knew  not  aught 
Of  the  deep  spells  wherewith  each  word  was  fraught. 
To  strangers  ? — Oh  !  could  strangers  raise  the  head 
Gently  as  hers  was  rais'd  ?— did  strangers  shed 
The  kindly  tears  which  bath'd  that  feverish  brow 
And  wasted  cheek  with  half  unconscious  flow  1 
Something  was  there,  that  thro'  the  lingering  night 
Outwatches  patiently  the  taper's  light. 


Something  that  taints  not  thro'  the  day's  distress, 

That  fears  not  toil,  that  knows  not  weariness  ; 

Love,  true  and  perfect  love ! — Whence  came  that  power. 

Uprearing  thro'  the  storm  the  drooping  flower  1 

Whence  1 — who  can  ask  1 — the  wild  delirium  pass'd, 

And  from  her  eyes  the  spirit  look'd  at  last 

Into  her  mother's  face,  and  wakening  knew 

The  brow's  calm  grace,  the  hair's  dear  silvery  hue, 

The  kind  sweet  smile  of  old  ! — and  had  she  come, 

Thus  in  life's  evening,  from  her  distant  home, 

To  save  her  child  ? — Ev'n  so — nor  yet  in  vain  : 

In  that  young  heart  a  light  sprung  up  again, 

And  lovely  still,  with  so  much  love  to  give, 

SeemM  this  fair  world,  tho'  faded ;  still  to  live 

Was  not  to  pine  forsaken.     On  the  breast 

That  rock'd  her  childhood,  sinking  in  soft  rest, 

"  Sweet  mother,  gentlest  mother  !  can  it  be  ?" 

The  lorn  one  cried,  "  and  do  I  look  on  thee  ? 

Take  back  thy  wanderer  from  this  fatal  shore, 

Peace  shall  be  ours  beneath  our  vines  once  more," 


THE  QUEEN  OF  PRUSSIA'S  TOMB. 


"  This  tomb  is  in  the  garden  of  Charlottenburgb,  near  Berlin. 
It  was  not  without  surprise  tbat  I  came  suddenly,  among  trees, 
upon  a  fair  white  Doric  temple.  I  might,  and  should  have 
deemed  it  a  mere  adornment  of  the  grounds,  but  the  cypress  and 
the  willow  declare  it  a  habitation  of  the  dead.  Upon  a  sarco- 
phagus of  white  marble  lay  a  sheet,  and  the  outline  of  the  human 
form  was  plainly  visible  beneath  its  folds.  The  person  with  me 
reverently  turned  it  back,  and  displayed  the  statue  of  his  Queen. 
It  is  a  portrait-statue  recumbent,  said  to  be  a  perfect  resem- 
blance— not  as  in  death,  but  when  she  lived  to  bless  and  be  bless- 
ed. Nothing  can  be  more  calm  and  kind  than  the  expression  of 
her  features.  The  hands  are  folded  on  the  bosom  ;  the  limbs  arc 

sufficiently  crossed  to  show  the  repose  of  life. Here  the  King 

brings  her  children  annually,  to  offer  garlands  at  her  grave. 
These  hang  in  withered  mournfulness  above  this  living  image  of 
their  departed  mother." — SHERER'S  Notes  and  Reflections  during 
a  Ramble  in  Germany. 


HIE  QUEEN  OF  PRUSSIA'S  TOMB.  155 


THE  QUEEN  OF  PRUSSIA'S  TOMB, 


In  sweet  pride  upon  that  insult  keen 

She  smiled ;  then  drooping  mute  and  broken-hearted, 

To  Ihe  cold  comfort  of  the  grave  departed. 

MlLMAN. 


IT  stands  where  northern  willows  weep, 

A  temple  fair  and  lone  ; 
Soft  shadows  o'er  its  marble  sweep, 

From  cypress-branches  thrown ; 
While  silently  around  it  spread, 
Thou  feePst  the  presence  of  the  dead. 


RECORDS    OF    \\UMAN. 

And  what  within  is  richly  shrined  '? 

A  sculptured  woman's  form, 
Lovely  in  perfect  rest  reclined, 

As  one  beyond  the  storm  : 
Yet  not  of  death,  but  slumber,  lies 
The  solemn  sweetness  on  those  eyes. 

The  folded  hands,  the  calm  pure  face. 

The  mantle's  quiet  flow, 
The  gentle,  yet  majestic  grace. 

Throned  on  the  matron  brow  ; 
These,  in  that  scene  of  tender  gloom. 
With  a  still  glory  robe  the  tomb. 

There  stands  an  eagle,  at  the  feet 
Of  the  fair  image  wrought ; 

A  kingly  emblem — nor  unmeet 
To  wake  yet  deeper  thought : 

She  whose  high  heart  finds  rest  below. 

Was  royal  in  her  birth  and  wo. 


THE  CfcUEEN  OF  PRUSSIA'S  TO31J*.  157 

There  are  pale  garlands  hung  above, 

Of  dying  scent  and  hue  ; — 
She  was  a  mother— in  her  lovo 

How  sorrowfully  true ! 
Oh !  hallow'd  long  be  every  leaf, 
The  record  of  her  children's  grief ! 

She  saw  their  birthright's  warrior  crown 

Of  olden  glory  spoil'd, 
The  standard  of  their  sires  borne  down, 

The  shield's  bright  blazon  soiled  : 
She  met  the  tempest  meekly  brave, 
Then  turn'd,  overwearied,  to  the  grave. 

She  slumber' (1 ;  but  it  came — it  came, 

Her  land's  redeeming  hour, 
With  the  glad  shout,  and  signal-flame, 

Sent  on  from  tower  to  tower ! 
Fast  thro'  the  realm  a  spirit  moved--— 
'Twas  hers,  the  lofty  and  the  loved. 
14 


158  RECORDS    OF    WOMAN. 

Then  was  her  name  a  note  that  rung 
To  rouse  bold  hearts  from  sleep, 

Her  memory,  as  a  banner  flung 
Forth  by  the  Baltic  deep  ; 

Her  grief,  a  bitter  vial  pour'd 

To  sanctify  th'  avenger's  sword. 

And  the  crown'd  eagle  spread  again 

His  pinion  to  the  sun ; 
And  the  strong  land  shook  off  its  chain — 

So  was  the  triumph  won ! 
But  wo  for  earth,  where  sorrow's  tone 
Still  blends  with  victory's  ! — She  was  gone  !* 

*  Originally  published  in  the  Monthly  Magazine. 


THE   MEMORIAL  PILLAR. 


On  the  road-side  between  Penrith  and  Appleby,  stands  a  small 
pillar,  with  this  inscription: — "This  pillar  was  erected  in  the 
year  1656,  by  Ann,  Countess  Dowager  of  Pembroke,  for  a  me- 
morial of  her  last  parting,  in  this  place,  with  her  good  and  pious 
mother,  Margaret,  Countess  Dowager  of  Cumberland,  on  the  2cl 
April,  1616."— See  Notes  to  the  "  Pleasures  of  Memory." 


RECORDS    01'     u 


THE  MEMORIAL  P1LLAK. 


Hast  tiiou,  thro'  Eden's  wild-wood  vales  pursued 
Each  mountain-scene,  magnificently  rude, 
Nor  with  attention's  lifted  eye,  revered 
That  modest  stone,  by  pious  Pembroke  rear'd, 
Which  still  records,  beyond  the  pencil's  power, 
The  silent  sorrows  of  a  parting  hour  ? 

ROGER?. 


MOTHER  and  child  !  whose  blending  tears 

Have  sanctified  the  place, 
Where,  to  the  love  of  many  years. 

Was  given  one  last  embrace  ; 
Oh  !  ye  have  shrin'd  a  spell  of  power. 
Beep  in  your  record  of  that  hour ! 


THE    MEMORIAL    PILLAR.  161 

A  spell  to  waken  solemn  thought, 

A  still,  small  under-tone, 
That  calls  back  days  of  childhood,  fraught 

With  many  a  treasure  gone  ; 
And  smites,  perchance,  the  hidden  source, 
Tho'  long  untroubled — of  remorse. 

For  who,  that  gazes  on  the  stone 

Which  marks  your  parting  spot, 
Who  but  a  mother's  love  hath  known, 

The  one  love  changing  not  ? 
Alas !  and  haply  learn'd  its  worth 
First  with  the  sound  of  "Earth  to  earth  1" 

But  thou,  high-hearted  daughter  !  thou, 

O'er  whose  bright,  honour'd  head, 
Blessings  and  tears  of  holiest  flow, 

Ev'n  here  were  fondly  shed, 
Thou  from  the  passion  of  thy  grief, 

In  its  full  burst,  couldst  draw  relief. 
14* 


''BUS    OF    WOM 

For  oh !  tho'  painful  be  th'  excess, 
The  might  wherewith  it  swells, 

In  nature's  fount  no  bitterness 
Of  nature's  mingling,  dwells  ; 

And  thou  hadst  not,  by  wrong  or  pride, 

Poison'd  the  free  and  healthful  tide. 

But  didst  thou  meet  the  face  no  more. 
Which  thy  young  heart  first  knew  ? 

And  all — was  all  in  this  world  o'er, 
With  ties  thus  close  and  true  ? 

It  was  ! — On  earth  no  other  eye 

Could  give  thee  back  thine  infancy. 

No  other  voice  could  pierce  the  maze 
Where  deep  within  thy  breast, 

The  sounds  and  dreams  of  other  days, 
With  memory  lay  at  rest ; 

No  other  smile  to  thee  could  bring 

A  gladd'ning,  like  the  breath  of  spring. 


THE    MEMORIAL    PILLAR.  163 

Yet,  while  thy  place  of  weeping  still 

Its  lone  memorial  keeps, 
While  on  thy  name,  midst  wood  and  hill, 

The  quiet  sunshine  sleeps, 
And  touches,  in  each  graven  line, 
Of  reverential  thought  a  sign  ; 

Can  I,  while  yet  these  tokens  wear 

The  impress  of  the  dead, 
Think  of  the  love  embodied  there, 

As  of  a  vision  fled  ? 
A  perish'd  thing,  the  joy  and  flower 
And  glory  of  one  earthly  hour  ? 


Not  so  \  —  I  will  not  bow  me  so, 
To  thoughts  that  breathe  despair  ! 

A  loftier  faith  we  need  below, 
Life's  farewell  words  to  bear. 

Mother  and  child  !  —  Your  tears  are 

Surely  your  hearts  have  met  at  last  ! 


iir.conns  or 


THE  GRAVE  OF  A  POETESS.* 


"  Ne  me  plaignez  pas — si  TOUS  saviez 
Combien  de  peines  ce  tombeau  ra'a  epargn&s!" 


I  STOOD  beside  thy  lowly  grave  ; — 

Spring-odours  breath'd  around. 
And  music,  in  the  river- wave, 

Pass'd  with  a  lulling  sound. 

*  Extrinsic  interest  has  lately  attached  to  the  fine  scenery  of 
Woodstock,  near  Kilkenny,  on  account  of  its  having  been  the 
last  residence  of  the  author  of  Psyche.  Her  grave  is  one  of  many 
in  the  church-yard  of  the  village.  The  river  runs  smoothly  by. 
The  ruins  of  an  ancient  abbey  that  have  been  partially  converted 
into  a  church,  reverently  throw  their  mantle  of  tender  shadow 
over  it, — Talcs  by  the  CPHura  Family. 


THE  GRAVE  OF  A  POETESS.  165 

All  happy  things  that  love  the  sun 

In  the  bright  air  glanc'd  by, 
And  a  glad  murmur  seem'd  to  run 

Thro7  the  soft  azure  sky. 

Fresh  leaves  were  on  the  ivy-bougli 

That  fring'd  the  ruins  near ; 
Young  voices  were  abroad— but  thou 

Their  sweetness  couldst  not  hear. 

And  mournful  grew  my  heart  for  thee, 

Thou  in  whose  woman's  mind 
The  ray  that  brightens  earth  and  sea, 

The  light  of  song  was  shrined. 

Mournful,  that  thou  wert  slumbering  low, 

With  a  dread  curtain  drawn 
Between  thee  and  the  golden  glow 

Of  this  world's  vernal  dawn. 


166  RECORDS    OF    WOMAN. 

Parted  from  all  the  song  and  bloom 
Thou  wouldst  have  lov'd  so  well, 

To  thee  the  sunshine  round  thy  tomb 
Was  but  a  broken  spell. 

The  bird,  the  insect  on  the  wing, 
In  their  bright  reckless  play, 

Might  feel  the  flush  and  life  of  spring,- 
Andihou  wert  pass'd  away ! 

But  then,  ev'n  then,  a  nobler  thought 
O'er  my  vain  sadness  came  ; 

Th'  immortal  spirit  woke,  and  wrought 
Within  my  thrilling  frame. 

Surely  on  lovelier  things,  I  said, 
Thou  must  have  look'd  ere  now, 

Than  all  that  round  our  pathway  shed 
Odours  and  hues  below. 


THE  GRAVE  OF  A  POETESS.  167 

The  shadows  of  the  tomb  are  here, 

Yet  beautiful  is  earth  ! 
What  seest  thou  then  where  no  dim  fear, 

No  haunting  dream  hath  birth  ? 

Here  a  vain  love  to  passing  flowers 

Thou  gav'st — but  where  thou  art, 
The  sway  is  not  with  changeful  hours, 

There  love  and  death  must  part. 

Thou  hast  left  sorrow  in  thy  song, 

A  voice  not  loud,  but  deep  ! 
The  glorious  bowers  of  earth  among, 

How  often  didst  thou  weep  ! 

Where  couldst  thou  fix  on  mortal  ground 

Thy  tender  thoughts  and  high  ? — 
Now  peace  the  woman's  heart  hath  found. 

And  joy  the  poet'? 


N  O  T  E  S 

TO 

RECORDS  OF  WOMAN- 


Note  1,  page  12,  lines  6  and  7. 
When  darkness  from  the  vainly-doting  sight, 
Covers  its  beautiful ! 

"  Wheresoever  you  are,  or  in  what  state  soever  you  be, 
it  sufficeth  me  you  are  mine.  Rachel  icept,  and  would  not 
be  comforted,  because  her  children  were  no  ?nore.  And  that, 
indeed,  is  the  remediless  sorrow,  and  none  else  !" — From 
a  letter  of  Arabella  Stuart's  to  her  husband. — See  Curiosi- 
ties of  Literature. 

Note  2,  page  21,  lines  9  and  10. 
Death ! — wliat,  is  death  a  locked  and  treasured  thing, 
Guarded  by  swords  of  fire  ? 

"  And  if  you  remember  of  old,  I  dare  die. Consider 

what  the  world  would  conceive,  if  I  should  be  violentH' 
enforced  to  do  it." — Fragments  of 

15 


170  NOTES. 

Note  3,  page  27,  lines  17  and  lb. 
.2nd  her  lovely  thoughts  from  their  cells  found  way, 
In  the  sudden  flow  of  a  plaintive  lay. 

A  Greek  Bride,  on  leaving  her  father's  house,  takes 
leave  of  her  friends  and  relatives  frequently  in  extempo- 
raneous verse. — See  Fauriel's  Chants  Populaires  de  la 
Grece  Modcrnc. 

Note  4,  page  65,  line  3. 
Jlnd  lov'd  when  they  should  hate — like  thee,  Imelda. 

The  tale  of  Imelda  is  related  in  Sismondi's  Historic 
cles  Republiques  Italienne.  Vol.  iii.  p.  443. 

Note  5,  page  109,  line  8. 
Father  of  ancient  waters,  roll ! 

"Father  of  waters,"  the  Indian  name  for  the  Missis- 
sippi. 

Note  6,  page  118,  line  11. 
Jlnd  to  the  Fairy's  fountain  in  the  glade. 

A  beautiful  fountain  near  Domremi,  believed  to  be 
haunted  by  fairies,  and  a  favourite  resort  of  Jeanne  d'Arc 
in  her  childhood. 

Note  7,  page  121,  lines  5  and  6. 
But  loveliest  far  amidst  the  revel's  pride, 
Was  she,  the  Lady  from  the  Danube-side. 

The  Princess  Pauline  Schwartzenberg.  The  story  of  her 
fate  is  beautifully  related  in  L'Allemagne.  Vol.  iii.  p.  336. 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES 

THE  HOMES  OF  ENGLAND. 


Where's  the  coward  that  would  not  dare 
To  fight  for  such  a  land  ? 


THE  stately  Homes  of  England, 

How  beautiful  they  stand  ! 
Amidst  their  tall  ancestral  trees, 

O'er  all  the  pleasant  land. 
The  deer  across  their  greensward  bound 

Thro'  shade  and  sunny  gleam, 
And  the  swan  glides  past  them  with  the  sound 

Of  some  rejoicing  stream. 
16* 


174  MISCELLANEOUS    FIECES. 

The  merry  Homes  of  England  ! 

Around  their  hearths  by  night, 
What  gladsome  looks  of  household  love 

Meet,  in  the  ruddy  light ! 
There  woman's  voice  flows  forth  in  song, 

Or  childhood's  tale  is  told, 
Or  lips  move  tunefully  along 

Some  glorious  page  of  old. 

The  blessed  Homes  of  England  ! 

How  softly  on  their  bowers 
Is  laid  the  holy  quietness 

That  breathes  from  Sabbath-hours  ! 
Solemn,  yet  sweet,  the  church-bell's  chime 

Floats  thro'  their  woods  at  mom  ; 
All  other  sounds,  in  that  still  time, 

Of  breeze  and  leaf  are  born. 


HIE  HOMES  OF  ENGLAND.  175 

The  Cottage  Homes  of  England ! 

By  thousands  on  her  plains, 
They  are  smiling  o'er  the  silvery  brooks, 

And  round  the  hamlet-fanes. 
Thro'  glowing  orchards  forth  they  peep, 

Each  from  its  nook  of  leaves, 
And  fearless  there  the  lowly  sleep, 

As  the  bird  beneath  their  eaves. 

The  free,  fair  Homes  of  England  ! 

Long,  long,  in  hut  and  hall, 
May  hearts  of  native  proof  be  rear'd 

To  guard  each  hallo  w'd  wall ! 
And  green  for  ever  be  the  groves, 

And  bright  the  flowery  sod, 
Where  first  the  child's  glad  spirit  loves 

Its  country  and  its  God  !* 

*  Originally  published  in  Blackwood's  Magazine. 


176 


THE  SICILIAN  CAPTIVE. 


1  have  dreamt  thou  wert 

A  captive  in  thy  hopelessness  ;  afar 

From  the  sweet  home  of  thy  young  infancy, 

Whose  image  unto  thee  is  as  a  dream 

Of  fire  and  slaughter ;  I  can  see  thee  wasting, 

Sick  for  thy  native  air. 

L.E.L 


THE  champions  had  come  from  their  fields  of  war, 
Over  the  crests  of  the  billows  far, 
They  had  brought  back  the  spoils  of  a  hundred  shores- 
Where  the  deep  had  foam'd  to  their  flashing  oars. 

They  sat  at  their  feast  round  the  Norse-king's  board, 
By  the  glare  of  the  torch-light  the  mead  was  pour'd. 
The  hearth  was  heap'd  with  the  pine-boughs  high, 
And  it  flung  a  red  radiance  on  shields  thrown  by. 


THE    SICILIAN    CAPTIVE.  177 

The  Scalds  had  chaunted  in  Runic  rhyme, 
Their  songs  of  the  sword  and  the  olden  time, 
And  a  solemn  thrill,  as  the  harp-chords  rung, 
Had  breath'd  frcrm  the  walls  where  the  bright  spears 
hung. 

But  the  swell  was  gone  from  the  quivering  string, 
They  had  summen'd  a  softer  voice  to  sing, 
And  a  captive  girl,  at  the  warriors'  call, 
Stood  forth  in  the  midst  of  that  frowning  hall. 

Lonely  she  stood  : — in  her  mournful  eyes 

Lay  the  clear  midnight  of  southern  skies, 

And  the  drooping  fringe  of  their  lashes  low.  « 

Half  veil'd  a  depth  of  unfathom'd  wo. 

Stately  she  stood — tho'  her  fragile  frame 
Seem'd  struck  witli  the  blight  of  some  inward  flame, 
And  her  proud  pale  brow  had  a  shade  of  scorn, 
Under  the  waves  of  her  dark  hair  worn. 


;-CELLANJ.«  US. 

And  a  deep  flush  pass'd,  like  a  crimson  haze, 
O'er  her  marble  cheek  by  the  pine-fire's  blaze  ; 
No  soft  hue  caught  from  the  south-wind's  breath. 
But  a  token  of  fever,  at  strife  with  death. 

She  had  been  torn  from  her  home  away, 
With  her  long  locks  crown'd  for  her  bridal  day. 
And  brought  to  die  of  the  burning  dreams 
That  haunt  the  exile  by  foreign  streams. 

They  bade  her  sing  of  her  distant  land — 
She  held  its  lyre  with  a  trembling  hand, 
Till  the  spirit  its  blue  skies  had  given  her,  woke. 
And  the  stream  of  her  voice  into  music  broke. 

Faint  was  the  strain,  in  its  first  wild  flow, 

Troubled  its  murmur,  and  sad,  and  low  ; 

But  it  swell'd  into  deeper  power^re  long, 

As  the  breeze  that  swept  over  her  soul  grew  strong. 


THE    SICILIAN    CAPT1\  K.  179 

••  They  bid  me  sing  of  thee,  mine  own,  my  sunny  land! 
of  thee ! 

Am  I  not  parted  from  thy  shores  by  the  mournful- 
sounding  sea  ? 

Doth  not  thy  shadow  wrap  my  soul  ?— in  silence  let  me 
die, 

In  a  voiceless  dream  of  thy  silvery  founts,  and  thy  pure 
deep  sapphire  sky  ; 

How  should  thy  lyre  give  here  its  wealth  of  buried 
sweetness  forth  ? 

Its  tones,  of  summer's  breathings  born,  to  the  wild 
winds  of  the  north  ? 

;<  Yet  thus  it  shall  be  once,  once  more  !*— my  spirit 

shall  awake, 
And  thro'  the  mists  of  death  shine  out,  my  country!  for 

thy  sake  ! 


180  IMISCELLANEOUS    1'IECES. 

That  I  may  make  thee  known,  with  all  the  beauty  aim 
the  light, 

Vnd  the  glory  never  more  to  bless  thy  daughter's  yearn- 
ing sight ! 

Thy  woods  shall  whisper  in  my  song,  thy  bright  streams 
warble  by, 

Thy  soul  flow  o'er  my  lips  again — yet  once,  my  Sicily  I 

'•  There  are  blue  heavens — far  hence,  far  hence  !  but 

oh  !  their  glorious  blue  ! 
Its  very  night  is  beautiful,  with  the  hyacinth's  deep 

hue  ! 
It  is  above  my  own  fair  land,  and  round  my  laughing 

home, 
And  arching  o'er  my  vintage-hills,  they  hang  their 

cloudless  dome, 
And  making  all  the  waves  as  gems,  that  melt  along  the 

•% 

shore, 

And  steeping  happy  hearts  in  joy — that  now  is  mine  no 
more. 


SICILIAN   CAPTIVE.  181 

"  And  there  are  haunts  in  that  green  land  —  oh!  who 

may  dream  or  tell, 

Of  all  the  shaded  loveliness  it  hides  in  grot  and  dell  ! 
By  fountains  flinging  rainbow-spray  on  dark  and  glossy 

leaves, 
And  bowers  wherein  the  forest-dove  her  nest  untroubled 

weaves  ; 
The  myrtle  dwells  there,  sending  round  the  richness  of 

its  breath, 
And  the  violets  gleam  like  amethysts,  from  the  dewy 

moss  beneath. 


'•  And  there  are  floating  sounds  that  fill  the  skies  thro' 

night  and  day, 
Sweet  sounds  !  the  soul  to  hear  them  faints  in  dreams 

of  heaven  away  ! 
They  wander  thro'  the  olive-woods,  and  o'er  the  shining 

seas, 
They  mingle  with  the  orange-  scents  that  load  the  sleepy 

breeze  ; 

16 


182  MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES. 

Lute,  voice,  and  bird,  are  blending  there ; — it  were  a 

bliss  to  die, 
As  dies  a  leaf,  thy  groves  among,  my  flowery  Sicily  ! 

"/may  n  t  thus  depart — farewell!  yet  no,  my  country! 

no ! 
Is  not  love  stronger  than  the  grave  ]     I  feel  it  must  be 

so! 
My  fleeting  spirit  shall  o'ersweep  the  mountains  and  the 

main, 
And  in  thy  tender  starlight  rove,  and  thro'  thy  woods 

again. 
Its  passion  deepens— it  prevails  ! — I  break  my  chain — 

I  come 
To  dwell  a  viewless  thing,  yet  blest — in  thy  sweet  air, 

my  home !" 


CAPTIVE.  183 

And  her  pale  arms  dropp'd  the  ringing  lyre, 
There  came  a  mist  o'er  her  eye's  wild  fire, 
And  her  dark  rich  tresses,  in  many  a  fold, 
Loos'd  from  their  braids,  down  her  bosom  roll'd. 

For  her  head  sank  back  on  the  rugged  wall, — 

A  silence  fell  o'er  the  warrior's  hall ; 

She  had  pour'd  out  her  soul  with  her  song's  last  tone  ; 

The  lyre  was  broken,  the  minstrel  gone  !  . 


IVAN  THE  CZAR. 

V 

"Ivan  le  Terrible,  etant  deja  devenu  vieux,  assiegoit  Novogorod. 
Les  Boyards,  le  voyant  affoibli,  lui  demanderent  s'il  ne  voulait  pas 
donner  le  commandement  de  1'assaut  a  son  fils.  Sa  fureur  fut  si 
grande  a  cette  proposition,  que  rien  ne  put  1'appaiser ;  son  fils  se 
prosterna  a  ses  pieds  j  il  le  repoussa  avec  un  coup  d'une  telle  vio- 
lence, que  deux  jours  apres  le  malheureux  en  mourut.  Le  pere, 
alors  au  desespoir,  devint  indifferent  a  la  guerre  comme  au  pouvoir,  et 
ne  surveeut  que  peu  de  mois  a  son  fils."— Dix  Annees  d'Exil,  par 
MADAME  DE  STAEL. 


1VAJS  THE    CZAR.    '  185 


IVAN  THE  CZAR. 


Gieb  diesen  Todten  mir  heraus.     Ich  muss 
Ilm  wieder  haben !         *         *         *         * 
*         *         *         *     Trostlose  allmacht, 
Die  nicht  einmal  in  Graber  ihren  arm 
Verlangern,  eine  kleine  Ubereilung 
Mit  Menschenleben  nicht  verbessern  kann  ! 

SCHILLER. 


HE  sat  in  silence  on  the  ground, 

The  old  and  haughty  Czar  ; 
Lonely,  tho»  princes  girt  him  round, 

And  leaders  of  the  war  : 
He  had  cast  his  jewell'd  sabre, 

That  many  a  field  had  won, 
To  the  earth  beside  his  youthful  dead, 

His  fair  and  first-born  son. 
16* 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES 

With  a  robe  of  ermine  for  its  bed, 

Was  laid  that  form  of  clay, 
Where  the  light  a  stormy  sunset  sin 

Thro*  the  rich  tent  made  way : 
And  a  sad  and  solemn  beauty 

On  the  pallid  face  came  down, 
Which  the  Lord  of  nations  mutely  watch'd. 

In  the  dust,  with  his  renown. 

Low  tones  at  last  of  wo  and  fear 

From  his  full  bosom  broke  ; — 
A  mournful  thing  it  was  to  hear 

How  then  the  proud  man  spoke  I 
The  voice  that  thro'  the  combat 

Had  shouted  far  and  high, 
Came  forth  in  strange,  dull,  hollow  tones. 

Burdened  with  agony. 


IVAN    THE    CZAR. 

•'  There  is  no  crimson  on  thy  cheek, 

And  on  thy  lip  no  breath, 
I  call  thee,  and  thou  dost  not  speak — 

They  tell  me  this  is  death ! 
And  fearful  things  are  whispering 

That  I  the  deed  have  done — 
For  the  honour  of  thy  father's  name, 

Look  up,  look  up,  my  son  ! 

"  Well  might  I  know  death's  hue  and  mien. 

But  on  thine  aspect,  boy  ! 
What,  till  this  moment,  have  I  seen, 

Save  pride  and  tameless  joy  ? 
Swiftest  thou  wert  to  battle, 

And  bravest  there  of  all — 
How  could  I  think  a  warrior's  frame 

Thus  like  a  flower  should  fall  ? 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES. 

''  I  will  not  bear  that  still,  cold  look — 

Rise  up,  thou  fierce  and  free ! 
Wake  as  the  storm  wakes !     I  will  brook 

All,  save  this  calm,  from  thee  ! 
Lift  brightly  up,  and  proudly, 

Once  more  thy  kindling  eyes  ! 
Hath  my  word  lost  its  power  on  earth  ? 

I  say  to  thee,  arise  ! 

"  Didst  thou  not  know  I  lov'd  thee  well  ? 

Thou  didst  not !  and  art  gone 
In  bitterness  of  soul,  to  dwell 

Where  man  must  dwell  alone. 
Come  back,  young  fiery  spirit ! 

If  but  one  hour,  to  learn 
The  secrets  of  the  folded  heart, 

That  seem'd  to  thee  so  stern. 


IVAN    THE    CZAIL.  189 

"  Thou  wert  the  first,  the  first  fair  child, 

That  in  mine  arms  I  press'd  ; 
Thou  wert  the  hright  one,  that  hast  smil'd 

Like  summer  on  my  breast ! 
I  reared  thee  as  an  eagle, 

To  the  chase  thy  steps  I  led, 
I  bore  thee  on  my  battle-horse, 

I  look  upon  thee — dead  ! 

"  Lay  down  my  warlike  banners  here, 

Never  again  to  wave, 
And  bury  my  red  sword  and  spear, 

Chiefs  !  in  my  first-born's  grave  ! 
And  leave  me  ! — I  have  conquer'd, 

I  have  slain — my  work  is  done  ! 
Whom  have  I  slain  ? — ye  answer  not — 

Thou  too  art  mute,  my  son  !" 


190  MISCELLANEOUS    PIE(  , 

And  thus  his  wild  lament  was  pour'd 

Thro'  the  dark  resounding  night, 
And  the  battle  knew  no  more  his  sword. 

Nor  the  foaming  steed  his  might. 
He  heard  strange  voices  moaning 

In  every  wind  that  sigh'd  ; 
From  the  searching  stars  of  heaven  he  shrank- 

Humbly  the  conqueror  died.* 

*  Originally  published  in  the  Literary  Souvenir  for  1827. 


CAROLAN'S  PROPHECY.  191 


CAROLAN'S  PROPHECY.* 


Thy  cheek  too  swiftly  flushes  ;  o'er  thine  eye 
The  lights  and  shadows  come  and  go  too  fast, 
Thy  tears  gush  forth  too  soon,  and  in  thy  voice 
Are  sounds  of  tenderness  too  passionate 
For  peace  on  earth  ,  oh !  therefore,  child  of  song  I 
'Tis  well  thou  shouldst  depart. 


A  SOUND  of  music,  from  amidst  the  hills, 
Came  suddenly,  and  died  ;  a  fitful  sound 
Of  mirth,  soon  lost  in  wail. — Again  it  rose, 
And  sank  in  mournfulness. — There  sat  a  bard, 
By  a  blue  stream  of  Erin,  where  it  swept 
Flashing  thro'  rock  and  wood  ;  the  sunset's  light 
Was  on  his  wavy  silver-gleaming  hair, 
And  the  wind's  whisper  in  the  mountain-ash, 


*  Founded  on  a  circumstance  related  of  the  Irish  Bard,  in  the 
Percy  Anecdotes  of  Imagination." 


192  MISCELLANEOUS    PIEC  > 

WTiose  clusters  droop'd  above.     His  head  was  bow'd, 

His  hand  was  on  his  harp,  yet  thence  its  touch 

Had  drawn  but  broken  strains  ;  and  many  stood, 

"Waiting  around,  in  silent  earnestness, 

Th'  unchaining  of  his  soul,  the  gush  of  song  ; 

Many,  and  graceful  forms  !  yet  one  alone, 

Seem'd  present  to  his  dream  ;  and  she  indeed, 

With  her  pale  virgin  brow,  and  changeful  cheek, 

And  the  clear  starlight  of  her  serious  eyes, 

Lovely  amidst  the  flowing  of  dark  locks 

And  pallid  braiding  flowers,  was  beautiful, 

Ev'n  painfully  ! — a  creature  to  behold 

With  trembling  midst  our  joy,  lest  aught  unseen 

Should  waft  the  vision  from  us,  leaving  earth 

Too  dim  without  its  brightness  ! — Did  such  fear 

O'ershadow,  in  that  hour,  the  gifted  one, 

By  his  own  rushing  stream  ? — Once  more  he  gaz'd 

Upon  the  radiant  girl,  and  yet  once  more 

From  the  deep  chords  his  wandering  hand  brought  out 

A  few  short  festive  notes,  an  opening  strain 


CAROLAN'S  PROPHECV. 

Of  bridal  melody,  soon  dashed  with  grief, 
As  if  some  wailing  spirit  in  the  strings 
M£t  and  o'ermaster'd  him  :  but  yielding  then 
To  the  strong  prophet-impulse,  mournfully, 
Like  moaning  waters,  o'er  the  harp  he  pour'd 
The  trouble  of  his  haunted  soul,  and  sang — 

Voice  of  the  grave  ! 

I  hear  thy  thrilling  call ; 
It  comes  in  the  dash  of  the  foaming  wave, 

In  the  sear  leaf's  trembling  fall ! 
In  the  shiver  of  the  tree, 

I  hear  thee,  0  thou  voice  ! 
And  I  would  thy  warning  were  but  for  me, 

That  my  spirit  might  rejoice. 

I5ut  thou  art  sent 

For  the  sad  earth's  young  and  fair, 
For  the  graceful  heads  that  have  not  bent 

To  the  wintry  hand  of  care ! 

17 


19-i  MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES. 

They  hear  the  wind's  low  sigh, 

And  the  river  sweeping  free, 
And  the  green  reeds  murmuring  heavily, 

And  the  woods — but  they  hear  not  thee  ! 

Long  have  I  striven 

With  my  deep  foreboding  soul, 
But  the  full  tide  now  its  bounds  hath  riven, 

And  darkly  on  must  roll. 
There's  a  young  brow  smiling  near, 

With  a  bridal  white-rose  wreath, — 
Unto  me  it  smiles  from  a  flowery  bier, 

Touch'd  solemnly  by  death  ! 

Fair  art  thou  Morna ! 
The  sadness  of  thine  eye 
Is  beautiful  as  silvery  clouds 
On  the  dark-blue  summer  sky  ! 


CAROLAN'S  PROPHECY. 

And  thy  voice  comes  like  the  sound 

Of  a  sweet  and  hidden  rill, 
fThat  makes  the  dim  woods  tuneful  round — 

But  soon  it  must  be  still ! 

Silence  and  dust 

On  thy  sunny  lips  must  lie, 
Make  not  the  strength  of  love  thy  trust, 

A  stronger  yet  is  nigh ! 
No  strain  of  festal  flow 

That  my  hand  for  thee  hath  tried, 
But  into  dirge-notes  wild  and  low, 

Its  ringing  tones  have  died. 

Young  art  thou,  Morna ! 
Yet  on  thy  gentle  head, 
Like  heavy  dew  on  the  lily's  leav 
A  spirit  hath  been  shed  ! 


196  Mist  L-J.LANLOUS    PIKCES. 

And  the  glance  is  thine  which  sees 

Thro'  nature's  awful  heart — 
But  bright  things  go  with  the  summer-breeze, 

And  thou  too,  must  depart ! 

Yet  shall  I  weep  ? 

I  know  that  in  thy  breast 
There  swells  a  fount  of  song  too  deep, 

Too  powerful  for  thy  rest ! 
And  the  bitterness  I  know, 

And  the  chill  of  this  world's  breath- 
Go,  all  undimm'd,  in  thy  glory  go  ! 

Young  and  crown'd  bride  of  death  ! 

Take  hence  to  heaven 
Thy  holy  thoughts  and  bright, 
And  soaring  hopes,  that  were  not  given 
For  the  touch  of  mortal  blight ! 


CAP.OLAVS    PROPHECY.  197 

Might  we  follow  in  thy  track, 

This  parting  should  not  be  ! 
But  the  spring  shall  give  us  violets  back, 

And  every  flower  but  thee  ! 

There  was  a  burst  of  tears  around  the  bard  : 
All  wept  but  one,  and  she  serenely  stood, 
With  her  clear  brow  and  dark  religious  eye, 
Rais'd  to  the  first  faint  star  above  the  hills, 
And  cloudless  ;  though  it  might  be  that  her  cheek 
Was  paler  than  before. — So  Morna  heard 
The  minstrePs  prophecy. 

And  spring  returned, 

Bringing  the  earth  her  lovely  things  again, 
All,  save  the  loveliest  far !     A  voice,  a  smile, 
A  young  sweet  spirit  gone. 


17* 


i.i  !.\NF,<"K 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  CASTLE. 

From  the  "  Portrait  Gallery,"  an  unfinished  Poew, 


If  there  be  but  one  spot  upon  thy  name, 
One  eye  thou  fear'st  to  meet,  one  human  voice 
Whose  tones  thou  shrink'st  from — Woman !  veil  thy  face, 
And  bow  thy  head — and  die  ! 


THOU  seest  her  pictured  with  her  shining  hair,      > 
(Famed  were  those  tresses  in  Provensal  song,} 
Half  braided,  half  o'er  cheek  and  bosom  fair 
Let  loose,  and  pouring  sunny  waves  along 
Her  gorgeous  vest.     A  child's  light  hand  is  roving 
Midst  the  rich  curls,  and  oh  !  how  meekly  loving 
Its  earnest  looks  are  lifted  to  the  face, 
Which  bends  to  meet  its  lip  in  laughing 


i  HE  LADY  OF  THE  CASTLE. 

Yet  that  bright  lady's  eye  methinks  hath  less 
Of  deep,  and  still,  and  pensive  tenderness, 
Than  might  beseem  a  mother's  ; — on  her  brow 

Something  too  much  there  sits  of  native  scorn, 
And  her  smile  kindles  with  a  conscious  glow, 

As  from  the  thought  of  sovereign  beauty  born. 
— These  may  be  dreams — but  how  shall  woman  tell 
Of  woman's  shame,  and  not  with  tears  ? — She  fell ! 
That  mother  left  that  child  ! — went  hurrying  by 
Its  cradle — haply,  not  without  a  sigh, 
Haply  one  moment  o'er  its  rest  serene 
She  hung — but  no  !  it  could  not  thus  have  been, 
For  she  went  on ! — forsook  her  home,  her  hearth. 
All  pure  affection,  all  sweet  household  mirth. 
To  live  a  gaudy  and  dishonour'd  thing, 
Sharing  in  guilt  the  splendours  of  a  king. 

Her  lord,  in  very  weariness  of  life, 

Girt  on  his  sword  for  scenes  of  distant  strife  ; 


1200  MISCELLANEOUS    Pit 

He-reck'd  no  more  of  glory — grief  and  shame 

Crush'd  out  his  fiery  nature,  and  his  name 

Died  silently.     A  shadow  o'er  his  halls 

Crept  year  by  year  ;  the  minstrel  pass'd  their  walls  ; 

The  warder's  horn  hung  mute  ;- — meantime  the  child, 

On  whose  first  flowering  thoughts  no  parent  smiled, 

A  gentle  girl,  and  yet  deep-hearted,  grew 

Into  sad  youth  ;  for  well,  too  well,  she  knew 

Her  mother's  tale  !     Its  memory  made  the  sky 

Seem  all  too  joyous  for  her  shrinking  eye  ; 

Check'd  on  her  lip  the  flow  of  song,  which  fain 

Would  there  have  linger'd  ;  flush'd  her  cheek  to  pain. 

If  met  by  sudden  glance  ;  and  gave  a  tone 

Of  sorrow,  as  for  something  lovely  gone, 

Ev'n  to  the  spring's  glad  voice.     Her  own  was  low, 

And  plaintive — oh !  there  lie  such  depths  of  wo 

In  a  young  blighted  spirit !     Manhood  rears 

A  haughty  brow,  and  age  has  done  with  tears  ; 

But  youth  bows  down  to  misery,  in  amaze 

At  the  dark  cloud  o'ermantling  its  fresh  days, — 


HJK    LADY  OF  THE  CASTLE.  201 

And  thus  it  was  with  her.     A  mournful  sight 

In  one  so  fair — for  she  indeed  was  fair — 
Not  with  her  mother's  dazzling  eyes  of  light, 

Hers    were    more    shadowy,  full  of   thought    and 

prayer, 

And  with  long  lashes  o'er  a  white-rose  cheek, 
Drooping  in  gloom,  yet  tender  still  and  meek, 
Still  that  fond  child's — and  oh !  the  brow  above, 
So  pale  and  pure  !  so  form'd  for  holy  love 
To  gaze  upon  in  silence  ! — but  she  felt 
&    That  love  was  not  for  her,  tho'  hearts  would  melt 
Where'er  she  mov'd,  and  reverence  mutely  given 
Went  with  her ;  and  low  prayers,  that  call'd  on  Heaven 
To  bless  the  young  Isaure. 

One  sunny  morn, 

With  alms  before  her  castle  gate  she  stood, 
Midst  peasant-groups  ;  when  breathless  and  o'erworn, 
And  shrouded  in  long  weeds  of  widowhood. 


J{)2  ZMISCELLANEOUS    PIECES. 

A  stranger  thro'  them  broke  : — the  orphan  maid 
With  her  sweet  voice,  and  proffer'd  hand  of  aid, 
Turn'd  to  give  welcome  ;  but  a  wild  sad  look 
Met  hers  ;  a  gaze  that  all  her  spirit  shook ; 
And  that  pale  woman,  suddenly  subdued 
By  some  strong  passion  in  its  gushing  mood, 
Knelt  at  her  feet,  and  bath'd  them  with  such  tears 
As  rain  the  hoarded  agonies  of  years 
From  the  heart's  urn ;  and  with  her  white  lips  press'd 
The  ground  they  trod  ;  then,  burying  in  her  vest 
Her  brow's  deep  flush,  sobb'd  out — "  Oh !  undefiled  ! 
I  am  thy  mother — spurn  me  not,  my  child !" 

Isaure  had  pray'd  for  that  lost  mother ;  wept 
O'er  her  stain'd  memory,  while  the  happy  slept 
In  the  hush'd  midnight ;  stood  with  mournful  gazo 
Before  yon  picture's  smile  of  other  days. 
But  never  breath'd  in  human  ear  the  name 
Which  weigh'd  her  being  to  the  earth  with  sham-  . 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  CASTLE.  203 

What  marvel  if  the  anguish,  the  surprise, 
The  dark  remembrances,  the  alter'd  guise, 
Awhile  o'erpower'd  her  ? — from  the  weeper's  touch 
She  shrank — 'twas  but  a  moment — yet  too  much 
For  that  all  humbled  one  ;  its  mortal  stroke 
Came  down  like  lightning,  and  her  full  heart  broke 
At  once  in  silence.     Heavily  and  prone 
She  sank,  while,  o'er  her  castle's  threshold-stone, 
Those  long  fair  tresses — they  still  brightly  wore 
Their  early  pride,  tho'  bound  with  pearls  no  more — 
Bursting  their  fillet  in  sad  beauty  roll'd, 
And  swept  the  dust  with  coils  of  wavy  gold. 

Her  child  bent  o'er  her — call'd  her — 'twas  too  late — 
Dead  lay  the  wanderer  at  her  own  proud  gate  ! 
The  joy  of  Courts,  the  star  of  knight  and  bard, — 
How  didst  thou  fall,  0  bright-hair'd  Ermengarde  ! 


VJ04  MlsCELLAiNEOUS    PIECE*, 


THE  MOURNER  FOR  THE  fARMECIDES, 


0  good  old  man !  how  well  in  thee  appears 
The  constant  service  of  the  antique  world ! 
Thou  art  not  for  the  fashion  of  these  times. 

.is  You  Like  It, 


FALLEN  was  the  House  of  Giafar ;  and  its  name, 

The  high  romantic  name  of  Barmecide, 

A  sound  forbidden  on  its  own  bright  shores, 

By  the  swift  Tygris'  wave.     Stern  Haroun's  wrath. 

Sweeping  the  mighty  with  their  fame  away, 

Had  so  pass'd  sentence  :  but  man's  chainless  heart 

Hides  that  within  its  depths,  which  never  yet 

Th'  oppressor's  thought  could  reach. 


THE  MOURNER  FOR  THE  BARMECIDES. 

'Twas  desolate 

Where  Giafar's  halls,  beneath  the  burning  sun, 
Spread  out  in  ruin  lay.     The  songs  had  ceas'd  ; 
The  lights,  the  perfumes,  and  the  genii-tales, 
Had  ceas'd  ;    the  guests  were  gone.     Yet  still  one 

voice 

Was  there — the  fountain's  ;  thro'  those  eastern  courts. 
Over  the  broken  marble  and  the  grass, 
Its  low  clear  music  shedding  mournfully. 

And  still  another  voice  ! — an  aged  man, 
Yet  with  a  dark  and  fervent  eye  beneath 
His  silvery  hair,  came,  day  by  day,  and  sate 
On  a  white  column's  fragment ;  and  drew  forth. 
From  the  forsaken  walls  and  dim  arcades, 
A  tone  mat  shook  them  with  its  answering  thrill 
To  his  deep  accents.     Many  a  glorious  tale 
lie  told  that  sad  yet  stately  solitude, 
Pouring  his  memory's  fulness  o'er  its  gloom. 

Like  waters  in  the  waste ;  and  calling  up, 

18 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECi 

By  song  or  high  recital  of  their  deeds, 
Bright  solemn  shadows  of  its  vanish'd  race 
To  people  their  own  halls  :  with  these  alone, 
In  all  this  rich  and  breathing  world,  his  thought;-' 
Held  still  unbroken  converse.     He  had  been 
Rear'd  in  this  lordly  dwelling,  and  was  now 
The  ivy  of  its  ruins  ;  unto  which 
His  fading  life  seem'd  bound.     Day  roll'd  on  day. 
And  from  that  scene  the  loneliness  was  fled  ; 
For  crowds  around  the  grey-hair'd  chronicler 
Met  as  men  meet,  within  whose  anxious  hearts 
Fear  with  deep  feeling  strives  ;  till,  as  a  breeze 
Wanders  thro'  forest-branches,  and  is  met 
By  one  quick  sound  and  shiver  of  the  leaves. 
The  spirit  of  his  passionate  lament, 
As  thro'  their  stricken  souls  it  pass'd,  awoke 
One  echoing  murmur. — But  this  might  not  be 
Under  a  despot's  rule,  and  summon'd  thence, 
The  dreamer  stood  before  the  Caliph's  throne  : 
Sentenced  to  death  he  stood,  and  deeply  pale, 


HIE  MOURNER  FOR  THE  BARMECIDES.  207 

And  with  his  white  lips  rigidly  compressed  ; 
Till,  in  submissive  tones,  he  ask'd  to  speak 
Once  more,  ere  thrust  from  earth's  fair  sunshine  forth. 
Was  it  to  sue  for  grace  ? — his  burning  heart 
Sprang,  with  a  sudden  lightning,  to  his  eye, 
And  he  was  changed  ! — and  thus,  in  rapid  words, 
Th'  overmastering  thoughts,  more  strong  than  death 
found  way. 


"'  And  shall  I  not  rejoice  to  go,  when  the  noble  and  the 

brave, 
With  the  glory  on  their  brows,  are  gone  before  me  to 

the  grave  ? 
What  is  there  left  to  look  on  now,  what  brightness  in 

the  land  ? — 
I  hold  in  scorn  the  faded  world,  that  wants  their  princely 

band! 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES. 

"  My  chiefs  !  my  chiefs  !  the  old  man  comes,  that  in 

your  halls  was  nurs'd, 
That  follow'd  you  to  many  a  fight,  where  flash'd  your 

sabres  first ; 
That  bore  your  children  in  his  arms,  your  name  upon 

his  heart — 
Oh  !  must  the  music  of  that  name  with  him  from  earth 

depart  ? 

<;It  shall  not  be! — a  thousand  tongues,  tho'  human 

voice  were  still, 
With  that  high  sound  the  living  air  triumphantly  shall 

fill; 
The  wind's  free  flight  shall  bear  it  on,  as  wandering 

seeds  are  sown, 
And  the  starry  midnight  whisper  it,  with  a  deep  and 

thrilling  tone. 


THE  MOURNER  FOR  THE  BARMECIDES.     209 

v{  For  it  is  not  as  a  flower  whose  scent  with  the  drop- 
ping leaves  expires, 

And  it  is  not  as  a  household  lamp,  that  a  breath  should 
quench  its  fires  ; 

It  is  written  on  our  battle-fields  with  the  writing  of  the 
sword, 

It  hath  left  upon  our  desert-sands  a  light  in  blessings 
pour'd. 

:;  The  founts,  the  many  gushing  founts,  which  to  the 

wild  ye  gave, 
Of  you,  my  chiefs,  shall  sing  aloud,  as  they  pour  a 

joyous  wave  ; 
And  the  groves,  with  whose  deep  lovely  gloom  ye  hung 

the  pilgrim's  way, 
Shall  send  from  all  their  sighing  leaves  your  praises  on 

the  day. 


18* 


I'll)  i^CELLANEOUS    PIEl  . 

fci  The  very  walls  your  bounty  rear'd,  for  the  stranger's 

homeless  head, 
Shall  find  a  murmur  to  record  your  tale,  my  glorious 

dead! 
Tho'  the  grass  be  where  ye  feasted  once,  where  lute 

and  cittern  rung, 
And  the  serpent  in  your  palaces  He  coil'd  amidst  its 

young. 

"  It  is  enough !  mine  eye  no  more  of  joy  or  splendour 

• 
sees, 

I  leave  your  name  in  lofty  faith,  to  the  skies  and  to  the 

breeze  ! 
I  go,  since  earth  her  flower  hath  lost,  to  join  the  bright 

and  fair, 
And  call  the  grave  a  kingly  ho^-e,  for  ye,  my  chiefs. 

are  there !" 


.  Hi:  MOURNER  FOR  THE  BARMECIDES.  211 

JBut  while  the  old  man  sang,  a  mist  of  tears 

O'er  Haroun's  eyes  had  gathered,  and  a  thought — 

Oh  !  many  a  sudden  and  remorseful  thought 

Of  his  youth's  once-lov'd  friends,  the  martyr'd  race 

O'erflowed    his  softening   heart. — "  Live,   live  !"    he 

cried, 

k'  Thou  faithful  unto  death !  live  on,  and  still 
Speak  of  thy  lords  ;  they  were  a  princely  band  !" 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECE*. 


THE  SPANISH  CHAPEL.* 


Weep  not  for  those  whom  the  veil  of  the  tomb, 
In  life's  early  morning,  hath  hid  from  our  eyes, 

Ere  sin  threw  a  veil  o'er  the  spirit's  young  bloom, 
Or  earth  had  profan'd  what  was  born  for  the  skies. 

MOORE. 


I  MADE  a  mountain-brook  my  guide. 
Thro'  a  wild  Spanish  glen, 

And  wandered,  on  its  grassy  side. 
Far  from  the  homes  of  men. 

It  lured  me  with  a  singing  tone, 
And  many  a  sunny  glance, 

To  a  green  spot  of  beauty  lone, 
A  haunt  for  old  romance. 


*  Suggested  by  a  scene  beautifully  described  in  the  "  Recollections 
of  the  Peninsula." 


I  Hi;    SPANISH    CHAPEL.  213 

A  dim  and  deeply-bosom'd  grove 

Of  many  an  aged  tree, 
Such  as  the  shadowy  violets  love, 

The  fawn  and  forest-bee. 

The  darkness  of  the  chestnut  bough 

There  on  the  waters  lay, 
The  bright  stream  reverently  below. 

Check'd  its  exulting  play  : 

And  bore  a  music  all  subdued, 

And  led  a  silvery  sheen, 
On  thro'  the  breathing  solitude 

Of  that  rich  leafy  scene. 

For  something  viewlessly  around 

Of  solemn  influence  dwelt, 
In  the  soft  gloom,  and  whispery  sound, 

Not  to  be  told,  but  felt : 


214  MISCELLANEOUS  PJ  i 

While  sending  forth  a  quiet  gleam 

Across  the  wood's  repose, 
And  o'er  the  twilight  of  the  stream, 

A  lowly  chapel  rose. 

A  pathway  to  that  still  retreat 
Thro'  many  a  myrtle  wound, 

And  there  a  sight — how  strangely  sweet ! 
My  steps  in  wonder  bound. 

For  on  a  brilliant  bed  of  flowers, 
Even  at  the  threshold  made, 

As  if  to  sleep  thro'  sultry  hours, 
A  young  fair  child  was  laid. 

To  sleep? — oh!  ne'er  on  childhood's  eye, 

And  silken  lashes  press'd, 
Did  the  warm  living  slumber  lie, 

With  such  a  weight  of  rest ! 


SPANISH    CHAPEL. 

Yet  still  a  tender  crimson  glow 
Its  cheek's  pure  marble  dyed — 

'Twas  but  the  light's  faint  streaming  flow 
Thro'  roses  heap'd  beside. 

I  stoop'd — the  smooth  round  arm  was  chill, 
The  soft  lip's  breath  was  fled, 

And  the  bright  ringlets  hung  so  still — 
The  lovely  child  was  dead ! 

;i  Alas  !"  I  cried,  "  fair  faded  thing  ! 

Thou  hast  wrung  bitter  tears, 
And  thou  hast  left  a  wo,  to  cling 

Round  yearning  hearts  for  years  !" 

But  then  a  voice  came  sweet  and  low — 

I  turn'd,  and  near  me  sate 
A  woman  with  a  mourner's  brow, 

Pale,  yet  not  desolate. 


MISCELLANEOUS   PIECE*. 

And  ill  her  still,  clear,  matron  face, 
All  solemnly  serene, 

A  shadow'd  image  I  could  trace 

« 

Of  that  young  slumberer's  mien. 

••  Stranger !  thou  pitiest  me,"  she  said, 
With  lips  that  faintly  smiled, 

"  As  here  I  watch  beside  my  dead, 
My  fair  and  precious  child. 

"  But  know,  the  time-worn  heart  may  be 
By  pangs  in  this  world  riven, 

Keener  than  theirs  who  yield,  like  me. 
An  angel  thus  to  Heaven  !" 


CAPTIVE    KNK.  217 


THE  CAPTIVE  KNIGHT. 


The  prisoned  thrush  may  brook  the  cage, 
The  captive  eagle  dies  for  rage. 

Lady  of  Iht  Lake. 


'TWAS  a  trumpet's  pealing  sound ! 
And  the  knight  look'd  down  from  the  Paynim's  tower, 
And  a  Christian  host  in  its  pride  and  power, 

Thro'  the  pass  beneath  him  wound. 
Cease  awhile,  clarion  !     Clarion,  wild  and  shrill, 
Cease  !  let  them  hear  the  captive's  voice — be  still ! 

"  I  knew  'twas  a  trumpet's  note  ! 
And  I  see  my  brethren's  lances  gleam. 
And  their  pennons  wave  by  the  mountain  stream, 

And  their  plumes  to  the  glad  wind  float ! 
Cease  awhile,  clarion !     Clarion,  wild  and  shrill, 

Cease  !  let  them  hear  the  captive's  voice— be  still ! 
19 


M  I 

"  I  am  here,  with  my  heavy  chain ! 
And  I  look  on  a  torrent  sweeping  by, 
And  an  eagle  rushing  to  the  sky, 

And  a  host,  to  its  battle-plain  ! 
Cease  awhile,  clarion  !     Clarion,  wild  and  shrill. 
Cease  !  let  them  hear  the  captive's  voice — be  still '. 

"  Must  I  pine  in  my  fetters  here  ? 
With  the  wild  wave's  foam,  and  the  free  bird's  flight. 
And  the  tall  spears  glancing  on  my  sight, 

And  the  trumpet  in  mine  ear  ? 
Cease  awhile,  clarion  !.    Clarion,  wild  and  shrill, 
Cease  !  let  them  hear  the  captive's  voice — be  still ! 

"  They  are  gone  !  they  have  all  pass'd  by ! 
They  in  whose  \vars  I  had  borne  my  part, 
They  that  I  lov'd  with  a  brother's  heart, 

They  have  left  me  here  to  die  ! 
Sound  again,  clarion  !     Clarion  pour  thy  blast ! 
Sound  !  for  the  captive's  dream  of  hope  is  past.v 


THE  KAISER'S  FEAST. 


Louis,  Emperor  of  Germany,  having  put  his  brother,  the 
Palsgrave  Rodolphus,  under  the  ban  of  the  empire,  (in  the  12th 
century,)  that  unfortunate  Prince  fled  to  England,  where  he 
died  in  neglect  and  poverty.  "  After  his  decease,  his  mother, 
Matilda,  privately  invited  his  children  to  return  to  Germany ; 
and  by  her  mediation,  during  a  season  of  festivity,  when  Louis 
kept  wassail  in  the  Castle  of  Heidelberg,  the  family  of  his  bro- 
ther presented  themselves  before  him  in  the  garb  of  suppliants, 
imploring  pity  and  forgiveness.  To  this  appeal  the  victor 
*oftened." — Miss  BENGER'S  Memoirs  of  the  Queen  of  Be! i. 


220  VNEOUS    PIECf>, 


THE  KAISER  S  FEAST. 

THE  Kaiser  feasted  in  his  hall, 

The  red  wine  mantled  high ; 
Banners  were  trembling  on  the  wall, 

To  the  peals  of  minstrelsy  : 
And  many  a  gleam  and  sparkle  came 

From  the  armour  hung  around, 
As  it  caught  the  glance  of  the  torch's  flame, 

Or  the  hearth  with  pine-boughs  crown'd. 

"Why  fell  there  silence  on  the  chord 

Beneath  the  harper's  hand  ? 
And  suddenly,  from  that  rich  board, 

"Why  rose  tho  wassail-band  ? 


i  HI.    K.A 

The  strings  were  hush'd — the  knights  made  way 

For  the  queenly  mother's  tread, 
As  up  the  hall,  in  dark  array, 

Two  fair-hair'd  boys  she  led. 

She  led  them  ev'n  to  the  Kaiser's  place, 

And  still  before  him  stood  ; 
Till,  with  strange  wonder,  o'er  his  face 

Flush'd  the  proud  warrior-blood  : 
And  "  Speak,  my  mother  !  speak  !"  he  cried, 

"  Wherefore  this  mourning  vest  ? 
And  the  clinging  children  by  thy  side. 

In  weeds  of  sadness  drest  ?" 

"  Well  may  a  mourning  vest  be  mine, 

And  theirs,  my  son,  my  son  ! 
Look  on  the  features  of  thy  line 

In  each  fair  little  one ! 


19* 


'!  MISCELLANEOUS    PIECED. 

Tho'  grief  awhile  witftin  their  eyes 

Hath  tamed  the  dancing  glee, 
Yet  there  thine  own  quick  spirit  lies — 

Thy  brother's  children  see  ? 

*;  And  where  is  he,  thy  brother,  where  ? 

He,  in  thy  home  that  grew, 
And  smiling,  with  his  sunny  hair, 

Ever  to  greet  thee  flew  ? 
How  would  his  arms  thy  neck  entwine, 

His  fond  lips  press  thy  brow ! 
My  son !  oh,  call  these  orphans  thine — 

Thou  hast  no  brother  now  ! 

"  What !  from  their  gentle  eyes  doth  nought 
Speak  of  thy  childhood's  hours, 

And  smite  thee  with  a  tender  thought 
Of  thy  dead  father's  towers  ? 


THE  KAISER'S  FEAST. 

Kind  was  thy  boyish  heart  and  true, 

When  rear'd  together  there, 
Thro'  the  old  woods  like  fawns  ye  flew — 

Where  is  thy  brother — where  ? 

"  Well  didst  thou  love  him  then,  and  he 

Still  at  thy  side  was  seen ! 
How  is  it  that  such  things  can  be, 

As  tho'  they  near  had  been? 
Evil  was  this  world's  breath,  which  came 

Between  the  good  and  brave  ! 
Now  must  the  tears  of  grief  and  shame 

Be  offer'd  to  the  grave. 

"  And  let  them,  let  them  there  be  pour'd  ! 

Tho'  all  unfelt  below, 
Thine  own  wrung  heart,  to  love  restored, 

Shall  soften  as  they  flow. 


i.ANEOLS    TIEC 

Oh  !  death  is  mighty  to  make  peace  ; 

Now  bid  his  work  be  done  ! 
So  many  an  inward  strife  shall  cease — 

Take,  take  these  babes,  my  son !" 

His  eye  was  dimm'd — the  strong  man  shook 

With  feelings  long  suppress'd  ; 
Up  in  his  arms  the  boys  he  took, 

And  strain'd  them  to  his  breast. 
And  a  shout  from  all  in  the  royal  hall 

Burst  forth  to  hail  the  sight ; 
And  eyes  were  wet,  midst  the  brave  that  met 

At  the  Kaiser's  feast  that  night. 


30    AND    HIS    SISTER, 


TASSO  AND  HIS  SISTER. 


"  Devant  vous  est  Sorrente ;  la  demeuroit  la  soeur  de  Tasse, 
quand  il  vint  en  pelerin  demander  a  cette  obscure  amic,  un  asyle 
contre  1'injustice  des  princes, — Ses  longues  douleurs  avaient  pres- 
que  egar^  sa  raison  j  il  ne  lui  restoit  plus  que  son  genie." — Corinne. 


SHE  sat,  where  on  each  wind  that  sighed, 

The  citron's  breath  went  by, 
While  the  red  gold  of  eventide 

Burn'd  in  th'  Italian  sky. 
Her  bower  was  one  where  daylight's  close 

Full  oft  sweet  laughter  found, 
As  thence  the  voice  of  childhood  rose 

To  the  high  vineyards  round. 


1*20  MISCEL1 

But  still  and  thoughtful,  at  her  knco. 

Her  children  stood  that  hour, 
Their  bursts  of  song  and  dancing  glee, 

Hush'd  as  by  words  of  power. 
With  bright,  fix'd,  wondering  eyes  that  gaz'd 

Up  to  their  mother's  face, 
With  brows  thro'  parted  ringlets  rais'd, 

They  stood  in  silent  grace. 

While  she — yet  something  o'er  her  look 

Of  mournfulness  was  spread — 
Forth  from  a  poet's  magic  book, 

The  glorious  numbers  read  ; 
The  proud  undying  lay,  which  pour'd 

Its  light  on  evil  years  ; 
His  of  the  gifted  pen  and  sword,* 

The  triumph — and  the  tears. 


*  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  recall  the  well-known  Italian  say- 
ir,  that  Tosso  with  his  sword  and  pen  was  superior  to  all  men. 


TASSO  AND    HIS    SISTEll,  227 

She  read  of  fair  Erminia's  flight, 

Which  Venice  once  might  hear 
Sung  on  her  glittering  seas  at  night, 

By  many  a  Gondolier  ; 
Of  him  she  read,  who  broke  the  charm 

That  wrapt  the  myrtle  grove  ; 
Of  Godfrey's  deeds,  of  Tancred's  arm. 

That  slew  his  Paynim  love. 

Young  cheeks  around  that  bright  page  glow'd, 

Young  holy  hearts  were  stirr'd  ; 
And  the  meek  tears  of  woman  flow'd 

Fast  o'er  each  burning  word. 
And  sounds  of  breeze,  and  fount,  and  leaf. 

Came  sweet,  each  pause  between  ; 
When  a  strange  voice  of  sudden  grief 

Burst  on  the  gentle  scene. 

I 


l.ANEOUS    PIEC 

The  mother  turn'd — a  way-worn  man, 

In  pilgrim-garb  stood  nigh, 
Of  stately  mien,  yet  wild  and  wan, 

Of  proud  yet  mournful  eye. 
But  drops  which  would  not  stay  for  pride, 

From  that  dark  eye  gush'd  free, 
As  pressing  his  pale  brow,  he  cried, 

"  Forgotten  !  ev'n  by  thee  ! 

"  Am  I  so  changed  ? — and  yet  we  two 

Oft  hand  in  hand  have  play'd  ; — 
This  brow  hath  been  all  bath'd  in  dew, 

From  wreaths  which  thou  hast  made  : 
\Ve  have  knelt  down  and  said  one  prayer, 

And  sung  one  vesper-strain  ; 
My  soul  is  dim  with  clouds  of  care — 

Tell  me  those  words  again  ! 


-O  AND  HIri  SISTEli. 

v*  Life  hath  been  heavy  on  my  head, 

I  come  a  stricken  deer, 
Bearing  the  heart,  midst  crowds  that  bled, 

To  bleed  in  stillness  here." — 
She  gaz'd — till  thoughts  that  long  had  slept, 

Shook  all  her  thrilling  frame — 
She  fell  upon  his  neck  and  wept, 

Murmuring  her  brother's  name. 

Her  brother's  name  !— and  who  was  he, 

The  weary  one,  th'  unknown, 
That  came,  the  bitter  world  to  flee, 

A  stranger  to  his  own  1 — 
He  was  the  bard  of  gifts  divine 

To  sway  the  souls  of  men  ; 
He  of  the  song  for  Salem's  shrine, 

He  of  the  sword  and  pen ! 


ULLA,  OR  THE  ADJURATION 


Yet  speak  to  me  !  I  have  outwatch'd  the  stars, 
And  gaz'd  o'er  heaven  in  vain,  in  search  of  thee. 
Speak  to  me  !  I  have  wander' d  o'er  the  earth, 
And  never  found  thy  likeness. — Speak  to  me  ! 
This  once — once  more ! 

Manfred. 


"  THOU'RT  gone  ! — thou'rt  slumbering  low. 

With  the  sounding  seas  above  thee  : 

i 
It  is  but  a  restless  wo, 

But  a  haunting  dream  to  love  thee  ! 
Thrice  the  glad  swan  has  sung, 

To  greet  the  spring-time  hours, 

% 

Since  thine  oar  at  parting  flung 
The  white  spray  up  in  showers. 


LA,    OU    THE    ADJURATION.  231 

There's  a  shadow  of  the  grave  on  thy  hearth,  and  round 

thy  home ; 
Come  to  me  from  the  ocean's  dead  ! — thou'rt  surely  of 

them — come  !" 

'Twas  Ulla's  voice — alone  she  stood 

In  the  Iceland  summer  night, 
Far  gazing  o'er  a  glassy  flood, 

From  a  dark  rock's  beetling  height. 

"  I  know  thou  hast  thy  bed 

Where  the  sea-weed's  coil  hath  bound  thee  : 
The  storm  sweeps  o'er  thy  head, 

But  the  depths  are  hush'd  around  thee. 
What  wind  shall  point  the  way 

To  the  chambers  where  thou'rt  lying  ? 
Come  to  me  thence,  and  say 

If  thou  thought's t  on  me  in  dyii> 


.MI- 

I  will  not  shrink  to  see  thee  with  a  bloodless  lip  and 

cheek — 
Come  to  me  from  the  ocean's  dead ! — thou'rt  surely  of 

them — speak !" 

She  listened — 'twas  the  wind's  low  moan, 

'Twas  the  ripple  of  the  wave, 
'Twas  the  wakening  ospray's  cry  alone, 

As  it  started  from  its  cave. 

"  I  know  each  fearful  spell 

Of  the  ancient  Runic  lay, 
Wh  >se  mutter'd  words  compel 

The  tempest  to  obey. 
But  I  adjure  not  thee 

By  magic  sign  or  song, 
My  voice  shall  stir  the  sea 

By  love, — the  deep,  the  strong  ! 


ULLA,  OR  THE  ADJURATION. 

By  the  might  of  woman's  tears,  by  the  passion  of  her 

sighs, 
Come  to  me  from  the  ocean's  dead — by  the  vows  we 

pledg'd — arise !" 

Again  she  gaz'd  with  an  eager  glance, 

Wandering  and  wildly  bright ; 
She  saw  but  the  sparkling  waters  dance 

To  the  arrowy  northern  light. 

';  By  the  slow  and  struggling  death 

Of  hope  that  loath'd  to  part, 
By  the  fierce  and  withering  breath 

Of  despair  on  youth's  high  heart ; 
By  the  weight  of  gloom  which  clings 

To  the  mantle  of  the  night, 
By  the  heavy  dawn  which  brings 

Nought  lovely  to  the  sight, 


20* 


"234^  MISCELLANEOUS    PIEC  \ 

By  all  that  from  my  weary  soul  thou  hast  wrung  of  grief 

and  fear, 
Come  to  me  from  the  ocean's  dead — awake,  arise, 

appear !" 

Was  it  her  yearning  spirit's  dream, 

Or  did  a  pale  form  rise, 
And  o'er  the  hush'd  wave  glide  and  gleam. 

With  bright,  still,  mournful  eyes  ? 

"  Have  the  depths  heard  ? — they  have  ! 

My  voice  prevails — thou'rt  there. 
Dim  from  thy  watery  grave, 

Oh  !  thou  that  wert  so  fair ! 
Yet  take  me  to  thy  rest ! 

There  dwells  no  fear  with  love  : 
Let  me  slumber  on  thy  breast, 

While  the  billows  roll  above  ! 


ULLA,  OR  THE  ADJURATION. 

Where  the  long-lost  things  lie  hid,  where  the  bright 

ones  have  their  home, 
We  will  sleep  among  the  ocean's  dead — stay  for  me, 

stay  !-— I  come  !" 

There  was  a  sullen  plunge  below, 

A  flashing  on  the  main, 
And  the  wave  shut  o'er  that  wild  heart's  wo, 

Shut — and  grew  still  again. 


TO  WORDSWORTH. 


THINE  is  a  strain  to  read  among  the  hills, 
The  old  and  full  of  voices  ; — by  the  source 

Of  some  free  stream,  whose  gladdening  presence  fills 
The  solitude  with  sound  ;   for  in  its  course 

Even  such  is  thy  deep  song,  that  seems  a  part 

Of  those  high  scenes,  a  fountain  from  their  heart. 

Or  its  calm  spirit  fitly  may  be  taken 

To  the  still  breast,  in  sunny  garden-bowers, 

Where  vernal  winds  each  tree's  low  tones  awaken. 
And  bud  and  bell  with  changes  mark  the  hours. 

There  let  thy  thoughts  be  with  me,  while  the  day 

Sinks  with  a  golden  and  serene  dec  ' 


i(>    WOKIJSUORTH.  2M 

Or  by  some  hearth  where  happy  faces  meet, 

When  night  hath  hush'd  the  woods,  with  all  their  birds, 

There  from  some  gentle  voice,  that  lay  were  sweet 
As  antique  music,  link'd  with  household  words. 

While,  in  pleased  murmurs,  woman's  lip  might  move, 

And  the  rais'd  eye  of  childhood  shine  in  love. 

Or  where  the  shadows  of  dark  solemn  yews 
Brood  silently  o'er  some  lone  burial-ground, 

Thy  verse  hath  power  that  brightly  might  diffuse 
A  breath,  a  kindling,  as  of  spring,  around  ; 

From  its  own  glow  of  hope  and  courage  high, 

And  steadfast  faith's  victorious  constancy. 

True  bard,  and  holy  ! — thou  art  ev'n  as  one 
Who,  by  some  secret  gift  of  soul  or  eye, 

In  every  spot  beneath  the  smiling  sun, 

Sees  where  the  springs  of  living  waters  lie  : 

Unseen  awhile  they  sleep — till,  touch'd  by  thee, 

Bright  healthful  waves  flow  forth  to  each  glad  wan- 
derer free. 


A  MONARCH'S  DEATH-BED. 


The  Emperor  Albert  of  Hapsburgh,  who  was  assassinated  by 
his  nephew,  afterwards  called  John  the  Parricide,  was  left  to  die 
by  the  way-side,  and  only  supported  in  his  last  moments  by  a  fe- 
male peasant,  who  happened  to  be  passing. 


A  MONARCH  on  his  death-bed  lay — 

Did  censers  waft  perfume, 
And  soft  lamps  pour  their  silvery  ray, 

Thro'  his  proud  chamber's  gloom  ? 
He  lay  upon  a  greensward  bed, 

Beneath  a  darkening  sky — 
A  lone  tree  waving  o'er  his  head, 

A  swift  stream  rolling  by. 


DEATH-BED.  239 

Had  he  then  fall'n  as  warriors  fall, 

Where  spear  strikes  fire  with  spear  1 
Was  there  a  banner  for  his  pall, 

A  buckler  for  his  bier  1 
Not  so  ; — nor  cloven  shields  nor  helms 

Had  strewn  the  bloody  sod, 
Where  he,  the  helpless  lord  of  realms; 

Yielded  his  soul  to  God. 

Were  there  not  friends  with  words  of  cheer, 

And  princely  vassals  nigh  1 
And  priests,  the  crucifix  to  rear 

Before  the  glazing  eye  ? 
A  peasant  girl  that  royal  head 

Upon  her  bosom  laid, 
And,  shrinking  not  for  woman's  dread, 

The  face  of  death  survey'd. 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIEC  > 

Alone  she  sat : — from  hill  and  wood 

Red  sank  the  mournful  sun ; 
Fast  gush'd  the  fount  of  noble  blood. 

Treason  its  worst  had  done  ! 
With  her  long  hair  she  vainly  press'd 

The  wounds  to  staunch  their  tide — 
Unknown,  on  that  meek  humble  breast, 

Imperial  Albert  died! 


i  O  THE  31EMOHY  OF  HEBEll.  241 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  HEBER. 

Umile  in  tanta  gloria. — PETRARCH 

IF  it  be  sad  to  speak  of  treasures  gone, 
Of  sainted  genius  called  too  soon  away, 

Of  light,  from  this  world  taken,  while  it  shone 
Yet  kindling  onward  to  the  perfect  day ; 

How  shall  our  grief,  if  mournful  these  things  be, 

Flow  forth,  oh,  Thou  of  many  gifts  !  for  thee  ? 

Hath  not  thy  voice  been  here  among  us  heard  ? 

And  that  deep  soul  of  gentleness  and  power, 
Have  we  not  felt  its  breath  in  every  word, 

Wont  from  thy  lip,  as  Hermon's  dew,  to  shower  ? 
Yes !  in  our  hearts  thy  fervent  thoughts  have  burn'd, 

Of  Heaven  they  were,  and  thither  have  return'd. 
21 


-CLLLANEOU3    PIECES. 

How  shall  we  mourn  thee  ? — With  a  lofty  trust, 
Our  life's  immortal  birthright  from  above ! 

With  a  glad  faith,  whose  eye,  to  track  the  just, 
Thro'  shades  and  mysteries  lifts  a  glance  of  love, 

And  yet  can  weep  ! — for  nature  thus  deplores 

The  friend  that  leaves  us,  tho3  for  happier  shores. 

And  one  high  tone  of  triumph  o'er  thy  bier, 
One  strain  of  solemn  rapture  be  allow'd ! 

Thou,  that  rejoicing  on  thy  mid  career, 
Not  to  decay,  but  unto  death,  hast  bow'd  : 

In  those  bright  regions  of  the  rising  sun, 

Where  victory  ne'er  a  crown  like  thine  had  won. 

Praise  !  for  yet  one  more  name  with  power  endow'd, 
To  cheer  and  guide  us,  onward  as  we  press ; 

Yet  one  more  image  on  the  heart  bestow'd, 
To  dwell  there,  beautiful  in  holiness  ! 

Thine,  Heber,  thine  !  whose  memory  from  the  dead. 

Shines  as  the  star  which  to  the  Saviour  led. 
ASAPH,  Sept.  1826. 


THE  ADOPTED  CHILD.  2  13 


THE  ADOPTED  CHILD. 

"  WHY  wouldst  thou  leave  me,  oh !  gentle  child  ? 

Thy  home  on  the  mountain  is  bleak  and  wild, 

A  straw-roof 'd  cabin  with  lowly  wall — 

Mine  is  a  fair  and  a  pillar'd  hall, 

Where  many  an  image  of  marble  gleams, 

And  the  sunshine  of  picture  for  ever  streams." 

"  Oh !  green  is  the  turf  where  my  brothers  play, 
Thro'  the  long  bright  hours  of  the  summer-day, 
They  find  the  red  cup- moss  where  they  climb, 
And  they  chase  the  bee  o'er  the  scented  thyme, 
And  the  rocks  where  the  heath-flower  blooms  they 

know — 
Lady,  kind  lady !  qh !  let  me  go," 


•^11  MISCELLANEOUS    1 

"  Content  thcc,  boy !  in  my  bower  to  dwell, 
Here  are  sweet  sounds  which  thou  lovest  well ; 
Flutes  on  the  air  in  the  stilly  noon, 
Harps  which  the  wandering  breezes  tune  ; 
And  the  silvery  wood-note  of  many  a  bird, 
Whose  voice  was  ne'er  in  thy  mountains  heard." 

"  Oh  !  my  mother  sings,  at  the  twilight's  fall, 
A  song  of  the  hills  far  more  sweet  than  all ; 
She  sings  it  under  our  own  green  tree, 
To  the  babe  half  slumbering  on  her  knee  ; 
I  dreamt  last  night  of  that  music  low — 
Lady !  kind  lady !  oh !  let  me  go." 

"  Thy  mother  is  gone  from  her  cares  to  rest, 
She  hath  taken  the  babe  on  her  quiet  breast ; 
Thou  wouldst  meet  her  footstep,  my  boy,  no  more. 
Nor  hear  her  song  at  the  cabin  door. 
Come  thou  with  me  to  the  vineyards  nigh, 
And  we'll  pluck  the  grapes  of  the  richest  r! 


THE  ADOPTED  CHILD. 

"  Is  my  mother  gone  from  her  home  away? — 

But  I  know  that  my  brothers  are  there  at  play. 

I  know  they  are  gathering  the  fox-glove's  bell, 

Or  the  long  fern-leaves  by  the  sparkling  well, 

Or  they  launch  their  boats  where  the  bright  streams 

flow, — 
Lady,  kind  lady !  oh !  let  me  go. " 

"  Fair  child,  thy  brothers  are  wanderers  now, 
They  sport  no  more  on  the  mountain's  brow, 
They  have  left  the  fern  by  the  spring's  green  side, 
And  the  streams  where  the  fairy  barks  were  tried. 
Be  thou  at  peace  in  thy  brighter  lot, 
For  thy  cabin-home  is  a  lonely  spot." 

"  Are  they  gone,  all  gone  from  the  sunny  hill  ? — 
But  the  bird  and  the  blue-fly  rove  o'er  it  still ; 
And  the  red-deer  bound  in  their  gladness  free, 
And  the  heath  is  bent  by  the  singing  bee, 
And  the!  waters  leap,  and  the  fresh  winds  blow, — 

Lady,  kind  lady !  oh  !  let  me  go." 
21* 


Ml-'l  I.U.AM.OI.S   1M: 


INVOCATION. 


I  called  on  dreams  and  visions,  to  disclose 
That  which  is  veil'd  from  waking  thought,  conjured 
Eternity,  as  men  constrain  a  ghost 
To  appear  and  answer. 

WORDSWORTH. 


ANSWER  me,  burning  stars  of  night ! 

Where  is  the  spirit  gone, 
That  past  the  reach  of  human  sight, 

As  a  swift  breeze  hath  flown  ? — 
And  the  stars  answered  me — "  We  roll 

In  light  and  power  on  high ; 
But,  of  the  never-dying  soul, 

Ask  that  which  cannot  die." 


INVOCATION. 

Oil !  many-toned  "and  chainless  wind  ! 

Thou  art  a  wanderer  free  ; 
Tell  me  if  thou  its  place  canst  find, 

Far  over  mount  and  sea  ? — 
And  the  wind  murmur'd  in  reply, 

"  The  blue  deep  I  have  cross'd, 
And  met  its  barks  and  billows  high. 

But  not  what  thou  hast  lost." 

Ye  clouds  that  gorgeously  repose 

Around  the  setting  sun, 
Answer !  have  ye  a  home  for  those 

Whose  earthly  race  is  run  ? 
The  bright  clouds  answered — "  We  depart, 

We  vanish  from  the  sky ; 
Ask  what  is  deathless  in  thy  heart. 

For  that  which  cannot  die." 


248  ^MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES. 

Speak  then,  thou  voice  of  God  within. 

Thou  of  the  deep  low  tone  ! 
Answer  me,  thro'  life's  restless  din, 

Where  is  the  spirit  flown  ? — 
And  the  voice  answered — "  Be  thou  still ! 

Enough  to  know  is  given  ; 
Clouds,  winds,  and  stars  their  part  fulfil. 

Thine  is  to  trust  in  Heaven," 


KORNER  AND  HIS  SISTER. 


Charles  Theodore  Korner,  the  celebrated  young  German  poet 
and  soldier,  was  killed  in  a  skirmish  with  a  detachment  oi 
French  troops,  on  the  20th  of  August,  1813,  a  few  hours  after 
the  composition  of  his  popular  piece,  "  The  Sword-song."  He 
was  buried  at  the  village  of  Wobbelin  in  Mecklenburgh,  under 
a  beautiful  oak,  in  a  recess  of  which  he  had  frequently  deposited 
verses  composed  by  him  while  campaigning  in  its  vicinity.  The 
monument  erected  to  his  memory  is  of  cast  iron,  and  the  upper 
part  is  wrought  into  a  lyre  and  sword,  a  favourite  emblem  of 
Korner's,  from  which  one  of  his  works  had  been  entitled. 
Near  the  grave  of  the  poet  is  that  of  his  only  sister,  who  died  of 
grief  for  his  loss,  having  only  survived  him  long  enough  to  com- 
plete his  portrait,  and  a  drawing  of  his  burial-place.  Over  the 
•.rate  of  the  cemetery  is  engraved  one  of  his  own  lines  : 
"  Vergiss  die  treuen  Todten  nicht." 
Forget  not  the  faithful  dead. 

See  Richardson's  translation  of  Korner's  Life  and  Works,  and 
Dowries  Letters  from  Mecklenburgh. 


MISCELLANEOUS    I" 


KORNER  AND  HIS  SISTER 


GREEN  wave  the  oak  for  ever  o'er  thy  rest, 

Thou  that  beneath  its  crowning  foliage  sleepest 

And,  in  the  stillness  of  thy  country's  breast, 
Thy  place  of  memory,  as  an  altar  keepest : 

Brightly  thy  spirit  o'er  her  hills  was  pour'd, 
Thou  of  the  Lyre  and  Sword ! 

Rest,  bard !  rest,  soldier  ! — by  the  father's  hand 
Here  shall  the  child  of  after-years  be  led, 

With  his  wreath-offering  silently  to  stand, 
In  the  hush'd  presence  of  the  glorious  dead. 

Soldier  and  bard  !  for  thou  thy  path  hast  trod 
With  freedom  and  with  God. 


KOR.NEK    AND    HIS   SISTER.  251 

The  oak  wav'd  proudly  o'er  thy  burial-rite, 

On  thy  crown'd  bier  to  slumber  warriors  bore  thee, 

And  with  true  hearts  thy  brethren  of  the  fight 
Wept  as  they  veil'd  their  drooping  banners  o'er  thee. 

And  the  deep  guns  with  rolling  peal  gave  token, 
That  Lyre  and  Sword  were  broken. 

Thou  hast  a  hero's  tomb  : — a  lowlier  bed 

Is  hers,  the  gentle  girl  beside  thee  lying, 
The  gentle  girl,  that  bow'd  her  fair  young  head, 

When  thou  \vert  gone,  in  silent  sorrow  dying. 
Brother,  true  friend  !  the  tender  and  the  brave — 
She  pined  to  share  thy  grave. 

Fame  was  thy  gift  from  others  ; — but  for  her, 
To  whom  the  wide  world  held  that  only  spot, 

She  lov'd  thee  ! — lovely  in  your  lives  yc  were, 
And  in  your  early  deaths  divided  not. 

Thou  hast  thine  oak,  thy  trophy : — what  hath  she  ? 
Her  own  blest  place  by  thee  ! 


252  MISCELLANEOUS    Pl£c  ; 

It  was  thy  spirit,  brother !  which  had  made 

The  bright  earth  glorious  to  her  thoughtful  eye, 

\ 
Since  first  in  childhood  midst  the  vines  ye  play'd. 

And  sent  glad  singing  thro'  the  free  blue  sky. 
Ye  were  but  two — and  when  that  spirit  pass'd. 
Wo  to  the  one,  the  last ! 

Wo,  yet  not  long ! — She  linger'd  but  to  trace 
Thine  image  from  the  image  in  her  breast, 

Once,  once  again  to  see  that  buried  face 
But  smile  upon  her,  ere  she  went  to  rest. 

Too  sad  a  smile  !  its  living  light  was  o'er. 
It  answer'd  hers  no  more. 

The  earth  grew  silent  when  thy  voice  departed, 
The  home  too  lonely  whence  thy  step  had  fled  ; 

What  then  was  left  for  her,  the  faithful-hearted  ? 
Death,  death,  to  still  the  yearning  for  the  dead  \ 

Softly  she  perish'd  :— be  the  Flower  deplor'd 
Here  with  the  Lyre  and  Sword  ! 


KORNER  AND  HIS  SISTER.  253 

Have  ye  not  met  ere  now  ? — so  let  those  trust 
That  meet  for  moments  but  to  part  for  years, 

That  weep,  watch,  pray,  to  hold  back  dust  from  dust, 
That  love,  where  love  is  but  a  fount  of  tears. 

Brother,  sweet  sister!  peace  around  ye  dwell — 
Lyre,  Sword,  and  Flower,  farewell  !* 


*  The  following  lines  recently  addressed  to  the  author  of  the 
above,  by  the  venerable  father  of  Korner,  who,  with  the  mother,  still 
survives  the  "  Lyre,  Sword,  and  Flower"  here  commemorated,  may 
not  be  uninteresting  to  the  German  reader. 

Wohllaut  tont  aus  der  Feme  von  freundlichen  Lviften  getragen, 
Schmeichelt  mit  lindernder  Kraft  sich  in  der  Trauerndcn  Ohr, 
Starkt  den  erhebenden  Glauben  an  solcher  seelea  Verwandschaft, 
Die  zum  Tempel  die  brust  nur  fur  das  Wiirdige  weihn. 
Aus  dem  Lande  zu  dem  sich  stets  der  gefeyerte  Jungling 
Hingezogen  gefiihlt,  wird  ihm  cin  glanzender  Lohn. 
Heil  dem  Britfischen  Volke,  wenn  ihm  das  Deutsche  nicht  fremd  ist ! 
Uber  Lander  und  Meer  reichen  sich  beyde  die  Hand. 

Theodor  Korner's  Valer, 


22 


254  MISCELLANEOUS    I 


AN  HOUR  OF  ROMANCE, 


To  this  sweet  place  for  quiet.     Every  tree, 
And  bush,  and  fragrant  flower,  and  hilly  path, 
And  thymy  mound  that  flings  unto  the  winds 
Its  morning  incense,  is  my  friend. 

BARRY  CORNWALI 


THERE  were  thick  leaves  above  me  and  around, 

And   low    sweet  sighs,  like  those--of   childhood's 

sleep, 
Amidst  their  dimness,  and  a  fitful  sound 

As  of  soft  showers  on  water  ; — dark  and  deep 
Lay  the  oak  shadows  o'er  the  turf,  so  still, 
They  seem'd  but  pictur'd  glooms  :  a  hidden  rill 
Made  music,  such  as  haunts  us  in  a  dream, 
Under  the  fern-tufts  ;  and  a  tender  gleam 


AS    HOUR    OF    ROMANCE. 

Of  soft  green  light,  as  by  the  glow-worm  shed, 
Came  pouring  thro'  the  woven  beech-boughs  down, 

And  steep'd  the  magic  page  wherein  I  read 
Of  royal  chivalry  and  old  renown, 

A  tale  of  Palestine.* — Meanwhile  the  bee 
Swept  past  me  with  a  tone  of  summer  hours, 
A  drowsy  bugle,  wafting  thoughts  of  flowers, 

Blue  skies  and  amber  sunshine  :  brightly  frer, 

On  filmy  wings  the  purple  dragon-fly 

Shot  glancing  like  a  fairy  javelin  by  ; 

And  a  iSweet  voice  of  sorrow  told  the  dell 
Where  sat  the  lone  wood-pigeon  : 
But  ere  long, 

All  sense  of  these  things  faded,  as  the  spell 

Breathing  from  that  high  gorgeous  tale  grew  strong 

On  my  chain'd  soul : — 'twas  not  the  leaves  I  heard — 

A  Syrian  wind  the  Lion-banner  sthr'd, 

*  The  Talisman— Tales  of  the  Crusaders. 


U-"H»  MISCELLANEOUS    PIECE-. 

Thro'  its  proud  floating  folds : — 'twas  not  the  brook, 
Singing  in  secret  thro'  its  grassy  glen — 
A  wild  shrill  trumpet  of  the  Saracen 
Peal'd  from  the  desert's  lonely  heart,  and  shook 
The  burning  air. — Like  clouds  when  winds  are  high. 
O'er  glittering  sands  flew  steeds  of  Araby, 
And  tents  rose  up,  and  sudden  lance  and  spear 
Flash'd  where  a  fountain's  diamond  wave  lay  clear, 
Shadow'd  by  graceful  palm-trees.     Then  the  shout 
Of  merry  England's  joy  swell'd  freely  out, 
Sent  thro'  an  Eastern  heaven,  whose  glorious  hue 
Made  shields  dark  mirrors  to  its  depths  of  blue  ; 
And  harps  were  there — I  heard  their  sounding  strings, 
As  the  waste  echoed  to  the  mirth  of  kings. — 
The  bright  masque  faded. — Unto  life's  worn  track. 
What  call'd  me  from  its  flood  of  glory,  back  ? 
A  voice  of  happy  childhood  ! — and  they  pass'd, 
Banner,  and  harp,  and  Paynim  trumpet's  blast ; 
Yet  might  I  scarce  bewail  the  splendours  gone, 
My  heart  so  leap'd  to  that  sweet  laughter's  tono. 


'.EU'rj  PllEAM  OF  LANP.  257 


A  VOYAGER'S  DREAM  OF  LAND. 


His  very  heart  athirst 
To  gaze  at  Nature  in  her  green  array, 
Upon  the  ship's  tall  side  he  stands,  possess'd 
With  Visions  prompted  by  intense  desire ; 
Fair  fields  appear  below,  such  as  he  left 
Far  distant,  such  as  he  would  die  to  find — 
He  seeks  them  headlong,  and  is  seen  no  more. 

COWPER. 


THE  hollow  dash  of  waves  ! — the  ceaseless  roar  !- 
Silence,  ye  billows  ! — vex  my  soul  no  more. 

There's  a  spring  in  the  woods  by  my  sunny  home, 

Afar  from  the  dark  sea's  tossing  foam  ; 

Oh !  the  fall  of  that  fountain  is  sweet  to  hear, 

As  a  song  from  the  shore  to  the  sailor's  ear ! 
22* 


25S  MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES. 

And  the  sparkle  which  up  to  the  sun  it  throws, 

Thro'  the  feathery  fern  and  the  olive  boughs, 

And  the  gleam  on  its  path  as  it  steals  away 

Into  deeper  shades  from  the  sultry  day, 

And  the  large  water-lilies  that  o'er  its  bed 

Their  pearly  leaves  to  the  soft  light  spread, 

They  haunt  me  !  I  dream  of  that  bright  spring's  flow, 

I  thirst  for  its  rills,  like  a  wounded  roe  ! 

Be  still  thou  sea-bird,  with  thy  clanging  cry  ! 
My  spirit  sickens,  as  thy  wing  sweeps  by. 

Know  ye  my  home,  with  the  lulling  sound 
Of  leaves  from  the  lime  and  the  chestnut  round  ? 
Know  ye  it,  brethren  !  where  bower'd  it  lies, 
Under  the  purple  of  southern  skies  ? 
With  the  streamy  gold  of  the  sun  that  shines 
In  thro'  the  cloud  of  its  clustering  vines, 
And  the  summer-breath  of  the  myrtle-flowers  ; 
Borne  from  the  mountains  in  dewy  hours. 


A  VOYAGER'S  DREAM  OF  LAND.      259 

And  the  fire-fly's  glance  thro'  the  darkening  shades, 
Like  shooting  stars  in  the  forest-glades, 
And  the  scent  of  the  citron  at  eve's  dim  fall — 
Speak !  have  ye  known,  have  ye  felt  them  all  ? 

The  heavy  rolling  surge  !  the  rocking  mast ! 

Hush  !  give  my  dream's  deep  music  way,  thou  blast ! 

Oh  !  the  glad  sounds  of  the  joyous  earth  ! 
The  notes  of  the  singing  cicala's  mirth, 
The  murmurs  that  live  in  the  mountain  pines, 
The  sighing  of  reeds  as  the  day  declines, 
The  wings  flitting  home  thro'  the  crimson  glow 
That  steeps  the  woods  when  the  sun  is  low, 
The  voice  of  the  night-bird  that  sends  a  thrill 
To  the  heart  of  the  leaves  when  the  winds  are  still — 
I  hear  them  ! — around  me  they  rise,  they  swell, 
They  call  back  my  spirit  with  Hope  to  dwell, 
They  come  with  a  breath  from  the  fresh  spring-time, 
And  waken  my  youth  in  its  hour  of  prime. 


260  MISCELLANEOl > 

The  white  foam  dashes  high — away,  away  ! 

Shroud  my  green  land  no  more,  thou  blinding  spray  ! 

It  is  there ! — down  the  mountains  I  see  the  sweep 

Of  the  chestnut  forests,  the  rich  and  deep, 

With  the  burden  and  glory  of  flowers  that  they  bear. 

Floating  upborne  on  the  blue  summer-air, 

And  the  light  pouring  thro'  them  in  tender  gleams, 

And  the  flashing  forth  of  a  thousand  streams  ! — 

Hold  me  not,  brethren  !  I  go,  I  go, 

To  the  hills  of  my  youth  where  the  myrtles  blow, 

To  the  depths  of  the  woods,  where  the  shadows  rest, 

Massy  and  still,  on  the  greensward's  breast, 

To  the  rocks  that  resound  with  the  water's  play — 

I  hear  the  sweet  laugh  of  my  fount — give  way  ! 

Give  way ! — the  booming  surge,  the  tempest's  roar. 
The  sea-bird's  wail,  shall  vex  my  soul  no  more. 


THE    EFFIi  261 


THE  EFFIGIES. 


Der  rasche  Kampf  verewigt  einen  Mann  : 
Er  falle  gleich,  so  preiset  ihn  das  Lied. 
Allein  die  Thranen,  die  unendlichen 
Der  iiberbliebnen,  der  verlass'nen  Frau, 
Zahlt  keine  Nachwelt. 

GOETHE, 


WARRIOR  !  whose  image  on  thy  tomb, 

With  shield  and  crested  head, 
Sleeps  proudly  in  the  purple  gloom 

By  the  stain'd  window  shed  ; 
The  records  of  thy  name  and  race 

Have  faded  from  the  stone, 
Yet,  thro'  a  cloud  of  years  I  trace 

What  thou  hast  been  and  done. 


MISCELLANEOUS   riECL>. 

A  banner,  from  its  flashing  spear 

Flung  out  o'er  many  a  fight, 
A  war-cry  ringing  far  and  clear, 

And  strong  to  turn  the  flight ; 
An  arm  that  bravely  bore  the  lance 

On  for  the  holy  shrine  ; 
A  haughty  heart  and  a  kingly  glance — 

Chief!  were  not  these  things  thine  : 

A  lofty  place  where  leaders  sate 

Around  the  council-board  ; 
In  festive  halls  a  chair  of  state 

When  the  blood-red  wine  was  pour'd  : 
A  name  that  drew  a  prouder  tone 

From  herald,  harp,  and  bard  ; — 
Surely  these  things  were  all  thine  own. 

So  hadst  thou  thy  reward. 


THE    EFFIG11 

Woman  !  whose  sculptur'd  form  at  rest 

By  the  armed  knight  is  laid, 
With  meek  hands  folded  o'er  a  breast 

In  matron  robes  array'd  ; 
What  was  thy  tale  ?— Oh  !  gentle  mate 

Of  him,  the  bold  and  free, 
Bound  unto  his  victorious  fate, 

What  bard  hath  sung  of  thee  ? 

He  wooed  a  bright  and  burning  star — 

Thine  was  the  void,  the  gloom, 
The  straining  eye  that  follow'd  far 

His  fast  receding  plume  ; 
The  heart-sick  listening  while  his  steed 

Sent  echoes  on  the  breeze  ; 
The  pang — but  when  did  Fame  take  heed 

Of  griefs  obscure  as  these  ? 


204  MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES. 

Thy  silent  and  secluded  hours 

Thro'  many  a  lonely  day, 
While  bending  o'er  thy  broider'd  flowers, 

With  spirit  far  away  ; 
Thy  weeping  midnight  prayers  for  him 

Who  fought  on  Syrian  plains, 
Thy  watchings  till  the  torch  grew  dim — 

These  fill  no  minstrel  strains. 

A  still,  sad  life  was  thine  ! — long  years 

With  tasks  unguerdon'd  fraught, 
Deep,  quiet  love,  submissive  tears, 

Vigils  of  anxious  thought ; 
Prayer  at  the  cross  in  fervour  pour'd, 

Alms  to  the  pilgrim  given — 
Oh  !  happy,  happier  than  thy  lord. 

In  that  lone  path  to  heaven  ! 


LANDING  OF  THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS.  265 


THE    LANDING    OF   THE   PILGRIM 
FATHERS  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 


Look  now  abroad — another  race  has  fill'd 

Those  populous  borders — wide  the  wood  recedes, 

And  towns  shoot  up,  and  fertile  realms  are  till'd  ; 
The  land  is  full  of  harvests  and  green  meads. 

BRYANT. 


THE  breaking  waves  dash'd  high 

On  a  stem  and  rock-bound  coast, 
And  the  woods  against  a  stormy  sky 

Their  giant  branches  toss'd  ; 

I 

And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark. 

The  hills  and  waters  o'er, 
When  a  band  of  exiles  moor'd  their  bark 


On  the  wild  New-England  shore, 
23 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes, 

They,  the  true-hearted  came  ; 
Not  with  the  roll  of  the  stirring  drums, 

And  the  trumpet  that  sings  of  fame : 

§ 
Not  as  the  flying  come, 

In  silence  and  in  fear  ; — 
They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert  gloom 

With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang, 

And  the  stars  heard  and  the  sea  ! 
And  the  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim  woods  rang 

To  the  anthem  of  the  free. 

The  ocean-eagle  soar'd 

From  his  nest  by  the  white  wave's  foam, 
And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest  roar'd — 

This  was  their  welcome  home  ! 


LANDING  OF  THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS. 

| 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair, 

Amidst  that  pilgrim  band  ; — 
Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there, 
Away  from  their  childhood's  land  ? 

* 

There  was  woman's  fearless  eye, 

Lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth  ; 
There  was  manhood's  brow  serenely  high, 
And  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar  ? 
Bright  jewels  of  the  mine  1 
The  wealth  of  seas,  the  spoils  of  war  ]— • 
They  sought  a  faith's  pure  shrine  ! 

Ay,  call  it  holy  ground, 

The  soil  where  first  they  trod  ! 
They  have  left  unstain'd  what  there  they  found — 
Freedom  to  worship  God. 


9 

THE  SPIRIT'S  MYSTERIES. 


And  slight,  withal,  may  be  the  things  which  bring 
Back  on  the  heart  the  weight  which  it  would  fling 

Aside  forever  ; — it  may  be  a  sound — 
A  tone  of  music — summer's  breath,  or  spring — 

A  flower — a  leaf — the  ocean — which  may  wound — 
Striking  th»  electric  chain  wherewith  we  are  darkly  bound. 

Chiide  Harold 


THE  power  that  dwelleth  in  sweet  sounds  to  waken 
Vague  yearnings,  like  the  sailors  for  the  shore, 

And  dim  remembrances,  whose  hue  seems  taken 
From  some  bright  former  state,  our  own  no  more  : 

Is  not  this  all  a  mystery  '? — Who  shall  say 

Whence  are  those  thoughts,  and  whither  tends  their 
wav  ? 


THE    SPIRTT's    MVSTET;i 


I 

The  sudden  images  of  vanish'd  things, 

That  o'er  the  spirit  flash,  we  know  not  why  ; 

Tones  from  some  broken  harp's  deserted  strings, 
Warm  sunset  hues  of  summers  TOng  gone  by, 

A  rippling  wave  —  the  dashing  of  an  oiar  — 

A  flower  scent  floating  past  our  parents'  door  ; 

A  word  —  scarce  noted  in  its  hour  perchance, 
Yet  back  returning  with  a  plaintive  tone  ; 

A  smile  —  a  sunny  or  a  mournful  glance, 

Full  of  sweet  meanings  now  from  this  world  flown  : 

Are  not  these  mysteries  when  to  life  they  start, 

And  press  vain  tears  in  gushes  from  the  heart  ? 

And  the  far  wanderings  of  the  soul  in  dreams, 
Calling  up  shrouded  faces  from  the  dead, 

And  with  them  bringing  soft  or  solemn  gleams, 
Familiar  objects  brightly  to  o'efspread  ; 

And  wakening  buried  love,  or  joy,  or  fear,— 

These  are  night's  mysteries  —  who  shall  make  them  clear  ? 
23* 


' 


27$  MISCELLANEOUS    PIEC ; 

\nd  the  strange  inborn  sense  of  "coming  ill, 
That  ofttimes  whispers  to  the  haunted  breast, 

In  a  low  tone  which  nought  can  drown  or  still, 

Midst  feasts  and  melodies  a  secret  guest ; 
Whence  doth  thaWnurmur  wake,  that  shadow  fall  ? 

Why  shakes  the  spirit  thus  ? — 'tis  mystery  all ! 

i 

Darkly  we  move — we  press  upon  the  brink 
Haply  of  viewless  worlds,  and  know  it  not ; 

Yes  !  it  may  be,  that  nearer  than  we  think, 

Are  those  whom  death  has  parted  from  our  lot ! 

Fearfully,  wondrously,  our  souls  are  made — 

Let  us  walk  humbly  on,  but  undismay'd  ! 

Humbly — for  knowledge  strives  in  vain  to  feel 
Her  way  amidst  these  marvels  of  the  mind ; 

Yet  undismay'd — for  do  they  not  reveal 

Th'  immortal  being  with  our  dust  entwin'd  ?— 

So  let  us  deem  !  and  e'en  the  tears  they  wake 

Shall  then  be  blest,  for  that  high  nature's  sake. 

i 


THE    DJ.PA1 


THE  DEPARTED. 


Thou  shall  lie  down 

With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world— with  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth — the  wise — the  good, 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre. 

BRTANT, 


AND  shrink  ye  from  the  way 
To  the  spirit's  distant  shore  ? — 

Earth's  mightiest  men,  in  arm'd  array, 
Are  thither  gone  before. 

The  warrior  kings,  whose  banner 

Flew  far  as  eagles  fly, 
They  are  gone  where  swords  avail  them  not, 

From  the  feast  of  victory. 


FIE< 

And  the  seers  who  sat  of  yore 

By  orient  palm  or  wave, 
They  have  pass'd  with  all  their  starry  lore — 

Can  ye  still  fear  the  grave  ? 

We  fear !  we  fear  ! — the  sunshine 

Is  joyous  to  behold, 
And  we  reck  not  the  buried  kings, 

Nor  the  awful  seers  of  old. 

Ye  shrink  ! — the  bards  whose  lays 
Have  made  your  deep  hearts  burn, 

They  have  left  the  sun,  and  the  voice  of  praise, 
For  the  land  whence  none  return. 

And  the  beautiful,  whose  record 

Is  the  verse  that  cannot  die, 
They  too  are  gone,  with  their  glorious  bloom, 

From  the  love  of  human  eye. 


TUB  DEPART i: I >.  273 

Would  ye  not  join  that  throng 

Of  the  earth's  departed  flowers, 
And  the  masters  of  the  mighty  song 

In  their  far  and  fadeless  bowers  ? 

Those  songs  are  high  and  holy, 

But  they  vanquish  not  our  fear  ; 
Not  from  our  path  those  flowers  are  gone — 

We  fain  would  linger  here ! 

* 

Linger  then  yet  awhile, 

As  the  last  leaves  on  the  bough  ! — 
Ye  have  lov'd  the  light  of  many  a  smile. 

That  is  taken  from  you  now. 

There  have  been  sweet  singing  voices 

In  your  walks  that  now  are  still, 
i 

There  are  seats  left  void  in  your  earthly  homes, 
Which  none  again  may  fill. 


MISI  I.I.I,.\M;OUS  PIECE.-. 

Soft  eyes  are  seen  no  more, 

That  made  spring-time  in  your  heart ; 
Kindred  and  friends  are  gone  before — 

And  ye  still  fear  to  part  ? 

We  fear  not  now,  we  fear  not ! 

Though  the  way  thro'  darkness  bends  ; 
Our  souls  are  strong  to  follow  //tew, 

Our  own  familiar  friends  ! 


THE  PALM-TREE.  275 


THE  PALM-TREE.* 

IT  wav'd  not  thro'  an  Eastern  sky, 
Beside  a  fount  of  Araby  ; 
It  was  not  fann'd  by  southern  breeze j 
In  some  green  isle  of  Indian  seas, 
Nor  did  its  graceful  shadow  sleep 
O'er  stream  of  Afric,  lone  and  deep. 

But  fair  the  exiPd  Palm-tree  grew 
Midst  foliage  of  no  kindred  hue  ; 
Thro'  the  laburnum's  dropping  gold 
Rose  the  light  shaft  of  orient  mould, 
And  Europe's  violets,  faintly  sweet, 
Purpled  the  moss-beds  at  its  feet. 


*  This  incident  is,  I  think,  recorded  by  De  Lille,  in  his  poem  of 
Lrs  Jnrdins." 


[MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES. 

Strange  look'd  it  there  ! — the  willow  stream'd 
Where  silvery  waters  near  it  gleam'd  ; 
The  lime-bough  lured  the  honey-bee 
To  murmur  by  the  Desert's  Tree, 
And  showers  of  snowy  roses  made 
A  lustre  hi  its  fan-like  shade. 

There  came  an  eve  of  festal  hours — 
Rich  music  fill'd  that  garden's  bovvers  : 
Lamps,  that  from  flowering  branches  hung. 
On  sparks  of  dew  soft  colours  flung, 
And  bright  forms  glanc'd — a  fairy  show — 
Under  the  blossoms  to  and  fro. 

But  one,  a  lone  one,  midst  the  throng, 
Seem'd  reckless  all  of  dance  or  song  : 
He  was  a  youth  of  dusky  mien, 
Whereon  the  Indian  sun  had  been, 
Of  crested  brow,  and  long  black  hair-— 
\  stranger,  like  the  Palm-tree  there. 


THE    1'ALM-TREE.  277 

And  slowly,  sadly,  mov'd  his  plumes, 

Glittering  athwart  the  leafy  glooms  : 
i 

He  pass'd  the  pale  green  olives  by, 
Nor  won  the  chestnut-flowers  his  eye ; 
But  when  to  that  sole  Palm  he  came, 
Then  shot  a  rapture  through  his  frame ! 

To  him,  to  him,  its  rustling  spoke, 

The  silence  of  his  soul  it  broke  ! 

It  whisper'd  of  his  own  bright  isle, 

That  lit  the  ocean  with  a  smile  ; 

Aye,  to  his  ear  that  native  tone 

Had  something  of  the  sea-wave's  moan  ! 

His  mother's  cabin  home,  that  lay 
Where  feathery  cocoas  fring'd  the  bay  ; 
The  dashing  of  his  brethren's  oar, 
The  conch-note  heard  along  the  shore  ; — 
All  thro'  his  wakening  bosom  swept : 

He  clasp'd  his  country's  Tree  and  wept ! 
24 


278  MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 

Oh  !  scorn  him  not ! — the  strength,  whereby 

The  patriot  girds  himself  to  die, 

Th'  unconquerable  power,  which  fills 

The  freeman  battling  on  his  hills, 

These  have  one  fountain  deep  and  clear — 

The  same  whence  gush'd  that  child-like  tear ! 


THE  CHILD'S  LAST  SLEEP. 


THE  CHILD'S  LAST  SLEEP. 

SUGGESTED    BY  A  MONUMENT    OF    CHANTREY'S. 


THOU  sleepest — but  when  wilt  thou  wake,  fair  child  ?— 
When  the  fawn  awakes  in  the  forest  wild  ? 
When  the  lark's  wing  mounts  with  the  breeze  of  morn  ? 
When  the  first  rich  breath  of  the  rose  is  born  ?— 
Lovely  thou  sleepest,  yet  something  lies 
Too  deep  and  still  on  thy  soft-seal'd  eyes, 
Mournful,  tho'  sweet,  is  thy  rest  to  see — 
When  will  the  hour  of  thy  rising  be  ? 

Not  when  the  fawn  wakes,  not  when  the  lark 
On  the  crimson  cloud  of  the  morn  floats  dark-— 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES. 


Grief  with  vain  passionate  tears  hath  wet 

The  hair,  shedding  gleams  from  thy  pale  brow  yet ; 

Love  with  sad  kisses,  unfelt,  hath  press'd 

Thy  meek-dropt  eyelids  and  quiet  breast ; 

And  the  glad  spring,  calling  out  bird  and  bee, 

Shall  colour  all  blossoms,  fair  child  !  but  thee. 

Thou'rt  gone  from  us,  bright  one  ! — that  thou  shouldst 

die, 

And  life  be  left  to  the  butterfly  !* 
Thou'rt    gone,    as    a   dew-drop    is    swept   from    the 

bough — 

Oh  !  for  the  world  where  thy  home  is  now  ! 
How  may  we  love  but  in  doubt  and  fear, 
How  may  we  anchor  our  fond  hearts  here, 
How  should  e'en  joy  but  a  trembler  be, 
Beautiful  dust !  when  we  look  on  thee  1 


*  A  butterfly,  as  if  resting  on  a  flower,  is  sculptured  on  the  monu- 
ment. 


THE    SUNB1 


THE  SUNBEAM. 

THOU  art  no  lingerer  in  monarch's  hall, 
A  joy  thou  art,  and  a  wealth  to  all ! 
A  bearer  of  hope  unto  land  and  sea — 
Sunbeam  !  what  gift  hath  the  world  like  thee  ? 

Thou  art  walking  the  billows,  and  ocean  smiles — 
Thou  hast  touch'd  with  glory  his  thousand  isles  ; 
Thou  hast  lit  up  the  ships,  and  the  feathery  foam, 
And  gladden'd  the  sailor,  like  words  from  home. 

To  the  solemn  depths  of  the  forest  shades, 
Thou  art  streaming  on  thro'  their  green  arcades, 
And  the  quivering  leaves  that  have  caught  thy  glow, 

Like  fire-flies  glance  to  the  pools  below. 

24* 


I>82  MISCELLANEOUS    1>J1><  . 

I  look'd  on  the  mountains — a  vapour  lay 
Folding  their  heights  in  its  dark  array  : 
Thou  brakest  forth — ami  the  mist  became 
A  crown  and  a  mantle  of  living  flame. 

1  look'd  on  the  peasant's  lowly  cot — 
Something  of  sadness  had  wrapt  the  spot ; — 
But  a  gleam  of  thee  on  its  lattice  fell, 
And  it  laugh'd  into  beauty  at  that  bright  spell. 

To  the  earth's  wild  places  a  guest  thou  art, 
Flushing  the  waste  like  the  rose's  heart ; 
And  thou  scornest  not  from  thy  pomp  to  shed 
A  tender  smile  on  the  ruin's  head. 

Thou  tak'st  thro'  the  dim  church-aisle  thy  way, 
And  its  pillars  from  twilight  flash  forth  to  day, 
And  its  high  pale  tombs,  with  their  trophies  old, 
Are  bath'd  in  a  flood  as  of  molten  gold. 


TH1 

And  thou  turnest  not  from  the  humblest  grave, 
Where  a  flower  to  the  Sighing  winds  may  wave  ; 
Thou  scatterest  its  gloom  like  the  dreams  of  rest, 
Thou  sleepest  in  love  on  its  grassy  breast. 

Sunbeam  of  summer !  oh !  what  is  like  thee  ? 

Hope  of  the  wilderness,  joy  of  the  sea ! — 

One,  tiling  is  like  thee  to  mortals  given, 

The  faith  touching  all  things  with  hues  of  Heaven ! 


\NTEOUS    VI 


BREATHINGS  OF  SPRING. 


Thou  giv'st  me  flowers,  thou  giv'st  me  songs  ; — bring  back 
The  love  that  I  have  lost ! 


WHAT  wak'st  thou,  Spring  ? — sweet  voices  in  the  woods, 
And  reed-like  echoes,  that  have  long  been  mute  ; 

Thou  bringest  back,  to  fill  the  solitudes, 

The  lark's  clear  pipe,  the  cuckoo's  viewless  flute, 

Whose  tone  seems  breathing  mournfulness  or  glee, 
Ev'n  as  our  hearts  may  be. 

And  the  leaves  greet  thee,  Spring ! — the  joyous  leaves, 
Whose  tremblings  gladden  many  a  copse  and  glade, 

Where  each  young  spray  a  rosy  flush  receives, 

When  thy  south- wind  hath  pierc'd  the  whispery  shade, 

And  happy  murmurs,  running  thro'  the  grass, 
Tell  that  thy  footsteps  pass. 


BREATHINGS  or  SfRING. 

And  the  bright  waters— they  too  hear  thy  call, 

Spring,  the  avvakener  !  thou  hast  burst  their  sleep ! 

Amidst  the  hollows  of  the  rocks  their  fall 
Makes  melody,  and  in  the  forests  deep, 

Where  sudden  sparkles  and  blue  gleams  betray 
Their  windings  to  the  day. 

And  flowers — the  fairy-peopled  world  of  flowers  ! 

Thou  from  the  dust  hast  set  that  glory  free, 
Colouring  the  cowslip  with  the  sunny  hours, 

And  pencilling  the  wood-anemone  ; 
Silent  they  seem — yet  each  to  thoughtful  eye 
Glows  with  mute  poesy. 

But  what  awak'st  thou  in  the  heart,  O,  Spring  ! 

The  human  heart,  with  all  its  dreams  and  sighs  ? 
Thou  that  giv'st  back  so  many  a  buried  thing, 

Restorer  of  forgotten  harmonies  ! 
Fresh  songs  and  scents  break  forth  where'er  thou  art, 

What  wak'st  thou  in  the  heart  ? 


286  MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES. 

Too  much,  oh  !  there  too  much! — we  know  not  well 
Wherefore  it  should  be  thus,  yet  rous'd  by  thee, 

What  fond  strange  yearnings,  from  the  soul's  deep  cell, 
Gush  for  the  faces  we  no  more  may  see  ! 

How  are  we  haunted,  in  thy  wind's  low  tone, 
By  voices  that  are  gone  ! 

Looks  of  familiar  love,  that  nevtr  more, 
Never  on  earth,  our  aching  eyes  shall  meet, 

Past  words  of  welcome  to  our  household  door, 
And  vanish'd  smiles,  and  sounds  of  parted  feet — 

Spring  !  midst  the  murmurs  of  thy  flowering  trees, 
Why,  why  reviv'st  thou  these  ? 

Vain  longings  for  the  dead  ! — why  come  they  back 
With  thy  young  birds,  and  leaves,  and  living  blooms  ? 

Oh  !  is  it  not,  that  from  thine  earthly  track 

Hope  to  thy  world  may  look  beyond  the  tombs  ? 

Yes  !  gentle  spring  ;  no  sorrow  dims  thine  air. 
Breath'd  by  our  lov'd  ones  /// 


ILLUMINATED    CITY.  287 


THE  ILLUMINATED  CITY. 

THE  hills  all  glow'd  with  a  festive  light, 

For  the  royal  cityrejoic'd  by  night : 

There  were  lamps  hung  forth  upon  tower  and  tree, 

Banners  were  lifted  and  streaming  free  ; 

Every  tall  pillar  was  wreath'd  with  fire, 

Like  a  shooting  meteor  was  every  spire  ; 

And  the  outline  of  many  a  dome  on  high 

Was  traced,  as  in  stars,  on  the  clear  dark  sky. 

I   pass'd   thro'  the   streets ;    there  were  throngs  on 

throngs — 

Like  sounds  of  the  deep  were  their  mingled  songs  ; 
There  was  music  forth  from  each  palace  borne — 
A  peal  of  the  cymbal,  the  harp,  and  horn  ; 


288  MISCELLANEOUS    PIEl 

The  forests  heard  it,  the  mountains  rang, 

The  hamlets  woke  to  its  haughty  clang  ; 

i 

Rich  and  victorious  was  every  tone, 
Telling  the  land  of  her  foes  o'erthrown. 

Didst  thou  meet  not  a  mourner  for  all  the  slain  ? 

Thousands  lie  dead  on  their  battle-plain ! 

Gallant  and  true  were  the  hearts  that  fell — 

Grief  in  the  homes  they  have  left  must  dwell ; 

Grief  o'er  the  aspect  of  childhood  spread, 

And  bowing  the  beauty  of  woman's  head  : 

Didst    thou  hear,   midst  the  songs,   not  one   tender 

moan, 
For  the  many  brave  to  their  slumbers  gone  ? 

I  saw  not  the  face  of  a  weeper  there — 
Too  strong,  perchance,  was  the  bright  lamp's  glare ! 
I  heard  not  a  wail  midst  the  joyous  crowd — 
The  music  of  victory  was  all  too  loud ! 


THE  ILLUMINATED  CITY.  289 

Mighty  it  roll'd  on  the  winds  afar, 
Shaking  the  streets  like  a  conqueror's  car  ; 
Thro'  torches  and  streamers  its  flood  swept  by — 
How  could  I  listen  for  moan  or  sigh  ? 

Turn  then  away  from  life's  pageants,  turn, 

If  its  deep  story  ihy  heart  would  learn  ! 

Ever  too  bright  is  that  outward  show, 

Dazzling  the  eyes  till  they  see  not  wo. 

But  lift  the  proud  mantle  which  hides  from  thy  view 

The  things  thou  shouldst  gaze  on,  the  sad  and  true  ; 

Nor  fear  to  survey  what  its  folds  conceal — 

So  must  thy  spirit  be  taught  to  feel ! 


290  MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES. 


THE  SPELLS  OF  HOME. 


There  blend  the  tics  that  strengthen 

Our  hearts  in  hours  of  grief, 
The  silver  links  that  lengthen 

Joy's  visits  nhen  most  brief. 

BERNARD  BARTON, 


BY  the  soft  green  light  in  the  woody  giade, 
On  the  banks  of  moss  where  thy  childhood  play'd  ; 
By  the  household  tree  thro'  which  thine  eye 
First  lookM  in  love  to  the  summer-sky  ; 
By  the  dewy  gleam,  by  the  very  breath 
Of  the  primrose  tufts  in  the  grass  beneath, 
Upon  thy  heart  there  is  laid  a  spell, 
Holy  and  precious — oh !  guard  it  well ! 


I  HE  SPELLS  OF  HoMK.  291 

By  the  sleepy  ripple  of  the  stream, 
Which  hath  lull'd  thee  into  many  a  dream ; 
By  the  shiver  of  the  ivy-leaves 
To  the  wind  of  morn  at  thy  casement-eaves, 
By  the  bees'  deep  murmur  in  the  limes, 
By  the  music  of  the  Sabbath-chimes, 
By  every  sound  of  thy  native  shade, 
Stronger  and  dearer  the  spell  is  made. 

By  the  gathering  round  the  winter  hearth, 

When  twilight  call'd  unto  household  mirth : 

By  the  fairy  tale  or  the  legend  old 

In  that  ring  of  happy  faces  told  ; 

By  the  quiet  hour  when  hearts  unite 

In  the  parting  prayer  and  the  kind  "  Good-night  ;'• 

By  the  smiling  eye  and  the  loving  tone, 

Over  thy  life  has  the  spell  been  thrown. 

And  bless  that  gift ! — it  hath  gentle  might, 
V  guardian  power  and  a  guiding  light. 


31LSCELLANEOUS    PIECES. 

It  hath  led  the  freeman  forth  to  stand 

In  the  mountain-battles  of  his  land  ; 

It' hath  brought  the  wanderer  o'er  the  seas 

To  die  on  the  hills  of  his  own  fresh  breeze  ; 

And  back  to  the  gates  of  his  father's  hall, 

It  hath  led  the  weeping  prodigal. 

Yes  !  when  thy  heart  in  its  pride  would  stray 
From  the  pure  first  loves  of  its  youth  away  ; 
When  the  sullying  breath  of  the  world  would  come 
O'er  the  flowers  it  brought  from  its  childhood's  home ; 
Think  thou  again  of  the  woody  glade, 
And  the  sound  by  the  rustling  ivy  made, 
Think  of  the  tree  at  thy  father's  door, 
And  the  kindly  spell  shall  have  power  once  more  ! 


ROMAN    GIKL'S    SO> 


ROMAN  GIRL'S  SONG. 


Koma,  Roma,  Roma ! 
Non  e  piu  come  era  prima. 


ROME,  Rome  !  thou  art  no  more 

As  thou  hast  been ! 
On  thy  seven  hills  of  yore 

Thou  satst  a  queen. 

Thou  hadst  thy  triumphs  then 

Purpling  the  street, 
Leaders  and  sceptred  men 

Bow'd  at  thy  feet. 

25* 


VEOUfe    V- 

They  that  thy  mantle  wore, 

As  gods  were  seen — 
Rome,  Rome  !  thou  art  no  more 

As  thou  hast  been ! 

Rome  !  thine  imperial  brow 

Never  shall  rise : 
What  hast  thou  left  thee  now  1 — 

Thou  hast  thy  skies  ! 

Blue,  deeply  blue,  they  are. 

Gloriously  bright ! 
Veiling  thy  wastes  afar 

With  colour'd  light. 

Thou  hast  the  sunset's  glow, 

Rome,  for  thy  dower, 
Flushing  tall  cypress-bough. 

Temple  and  tower ! 


ROMAN  GIRL'S  SONG, 

And  all  sweet  sounds  are  thine, 

Lovely  to  hear, 
While  night,  o'er  tomb  and  shrine, 

Rests  darkly  clear. 

Many  a  solemn  hymn, 

By  starlight  sung, 
Sweeps  thro'  the  arches  dim, 

Thy  wrecks  among. 

Many  a  flute's  low  swell, 

On  thy  soft  air 
Lingers,  and  loves  to  dwell 

With  summer  there. 

Thou  hast  the  South's  rich  gift 

Of  sudden  song, 
A  charmed  fountain,  swift, 

Joyous,  and  strong. 


<  ELLANEOUS    PIECES. 

Thou  hast  fair  forms  that  move 

With  queenly  tread  ; 
Thou  hast  proud  fanes  above- 

Thy  mighty  dead. 

Yet  wears  thy  Tiber's  shore 

A  mournful  mien  : — 
Rome,  Rome !  thou  art  no  more 

As  thou  hast  been  ! 


THE    DISTANT  SHIP. 


THE  DISTANT  SHIP. 

THE  sea-bird's  wing,  o'er  ocean's  breast 

Shoots  like  a  glancing  star, 
While  the  red  radiance  of  the  west 

Spreads  kindling  fast  and  far  ; 
And  yet  that  splendour  wins  thee  not, — 

Thy  still  and  thoughtful  eye 
Dwells  but  on  one  dark  distant  spot 

Of  all  the  main  and  sky. 

Look  round  thee  ! — o'er  the  slumbering  deep 

A  solemn  glory  broods  ; 
A  fire  hath  touch'd  the  beacon-steep, 

And  all  the  golden  woods  : 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES. 

A  thousand  gorgeous  clouds  on  high 
Burn  with  the  amber  light ; — 

What  spell,  from  that  rich  pageantry, 
Chains  down  thy  gazing  sight  ? 

A  softening  thought  of  human  cares, 

A  feeling  link'd  to  earth  ! 
Is  not  yon  speck  a  bark,  which  bears 

The  lov'd  of  many  a  hearth  ? 
Oh  !  do  not  Hope,  and  Grief,  and  Fear, 

Crowd  her  frail  world  even  now, 
And  manhood's  prayer  and  woman's  tear, 

Follow  her  venturous  prow  ? 

Bright  are  the  floating  clouds  above, 

The  glittering  seas  below  ; 
But  we  are  bound  by  cords  of  love 

TQ  kindred  weal  and  wo. 


THE    DISTANT    SHIP.  299 


Therefore,  amidst  this  wide  array 
Of  glorious  things  and  fair, 

My  soul  is  on  that  bark's  lone  way, 
For  human  hearts  are  there. 


300  MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


THE  BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 

BIRDS,  joyous  birds  of  the  wandering  wing  ! 
Whence  is  it  ye  come  with  the  flowers  of  spring  ! 
— "  We  come  from  the  shores  of  the  green  old  Nile, 
From  the  land  where  the  roses  of  Sharon  smile, 
From  the  palms  that  wave  thro'  the  Indian  sky, 
From  the  myrrh-trees  of  glowing  Araby. 

"  We  have  swept  o'er  cities  in  song  renown'd — 

Silent  they  lie,  with  the  deserts  round  ! 

We  have  cross'd  proud  rivers,  whose  tide  hath  roll'd 

All  dark  with  the  warrior-blood  of  old  ; 

And  each  worn  wing  hath  regain'd  its  home, 

Under  peasant's  roof-tree,  or  monarch's  dome." 


THE    BIRDS    OF    PASSAGE.  301 

And  what  have  ye  found  in  the  monarch's  dome, 
Since  last  ye  travers'd  the  blue  sea's  foam  ? 
— "  We  have  found  a  change,  we  have  found  a  pall, 
And  a  gloom  o'ershadowing  the  banquet's  hall, 
And  a  mark  on  the  floor  as  of  life-drops  spilt, — 
Nought  looks  the  same  save  the  nest  we  built !" 

Oh  !  joyous  birds,  it  hath  still  been  so  ; 
Thro'  the  halls  of  kings  doth  the  tempest  go  ! 
But  the  huts  of  the  hamlet  lie  still  and  deep, 
And  the  hills  o'er  their  quiet  a  vigil  keep. 
Say  what  have  ye  found  in  the  peasant's  cot, 
Since  last  ye  parted  from  that  sweet  spot  1 

"  A  change  we  have  found  there — and  many  a  change  ! 

Faces  and  footsteps  and  all  things  strange  ! 

Gone  are  the  heads  of  the  silvery  hair, 

And  the  young  that  were,  have  a  brow  of  care, 

And  the  place  is  hush'd  where  the  children  play'd, — 

looks  the  same,  save  the  nest  we  made !" 
26 


302  CELLANEOUS    PIECES. 

Sad  is  your  tale  of  the  beautiful  earth, 
Birds  that  o'ersweep  it  in  power  and  mirth  ! 
Yet  thro'  the  wastes  of  the  trackless  air, 
Ye  have  a  Guide,  and  shall  we  despair  ? 
Ye  over  desert  and  deep  have  pass'd, — 
So  may  we  reach  our  bright  home  at  last ! 


HIE  GKA.VES  01  -KHOLD. 


THE  GRAVES  OF  A  HOUSEHOLD. 


THEY  grew  in  beauty,  side  by  side, 
They  fill'd  one  home  with  glee  ; — 

Their  graves  are  sever'd,  far  and  wide, 
By  mount,  and  stream,  and  sea. 

The  same  fond  mother  bent  at  night 
O'er  each  fair  sleeping  brow  ; 

She  had  each  folded  flower  in  sight, — 
Where  are  those  dreamers  now  ? 

One,  midst  the  forests  of  the  west, 
By  a  dark  stream  is  laid — 

The  Indian  knows  his  place  of  rest. 
Far  in  the  cedar  shado. 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECE:-. 

The  sea,  the  blue  lone  sea,  hath  one. 

He  lies  where  pearls  lie  deep  ; 
He  was  the  lov'd  of  all,  yet  none 

O'er  his  low  bed  may  weep. 

One  sleeps  where  southern  vines  are  drest 

Above  the  noble  slain  : 
He  wrapt  his  colours  round  his  breast, 

On  a  blood-red  field  of  Spain. 

And  one — o'er  her  the  myrtle  showers 
Its  leaves,  by  soft  winds  fann'd  ; 

She  faded  midst  Italian  flowers, — 
The  last  of  that  bright  band. 

And  parted  thus  they  rest,  who  play'd 
Beneath  the  same  green  tree  ; 

Whose  voices  mingled  as  they  prav'd 
Around  one  parent  kneo  ! 


THE  GRATES  OF  A  HOUSEHOLD. 

They  that  with  smiles  lit  up  the  hall, 
And  cheer' d  with  song  the  hearth, — 

Alas  !  for  love,  if  thou  wert  all, 
And  nought  beyond,  oh,  earth  ! 


26* 


MOZART'S  REQUIEM. 


A  short  time  before  the  death  of  Mozart,  a  stranger  of  remarka- 
ble appearance,  and  dressed  in  deep  mourning,  called  at  his  house, 
and  requested  him  to  prepare  a  requiem,  in  his  best  style,  for  the 
funeral  of  a  distinguished  person.  The  sensitive  imagination  of  the 
composer  immediately  seized  upon  the  circumstance  as  an  omen  of 
his  own  fate  j  and  the  nervous  anxiety  with  which  he  laboured  to 
fulfil  the  task,  had  the  effect  of  realizing  his  impression.  He  died 
within  a  few  days  after  completing  this  magnificent  piece  of  music, 
which  was  performed  at  his  interment. 


MOZART'S 


MOZART'S  REQUIEM. 


These  birds  of  Paradise  but  long  to  flee 
Back  to  their  native  mansion. 

Prophecy  of  Dante. 


A  REQUIEM  ! — and  for  whom? 

For  beauty  in  its  bloom  1 
For  valour  fall'n — a  broken  rose  or  sword  I 

A  dirge  for  king  or  chief, 

With  pomp  of  stately  grief, 
Banner,  and  torch,  and  waving  plume  deplor'd  ? 

Not  so,  it  is  not  so  ! 

The  warning  voice  I  know, 
From  other  worlds  a  strange  mysterious  tone  ; 

A  solemn  fuueral  air 

It  call'd  me  to  prepare, 
And  my  heart  answered  secretly — my  own  ! 


.MISCELLANEOUS    PIECI 

One  more  then,  one  more^strain. 

In  links  of  joy  and  pain 
Mighty  the  troubled  spirit  to  inthral ! 

And  let  me  breathe  my  dower 

Of  passion  and  of  power 
Full  into  that  deep  lay — the  last  of  all ! 

The  last ! — and  I  must  go 

From  this  bright  world  below, 
This  realm  of  sunshine,  ringing  with  sweet  sound 

Must  leave  its  festal  skies. 

With  all  their  melodies, 
That  ever  in  my  breast  glad  echoes  found  ! 

Yet  have  I  known  it  long  : 

Too  restless  and  too  strong 
Within  this  clay  hath  been  th'  overmastering  flame 

Swift  thoughts,  that  came  and  went, 

Like  torrents  o'er  me  sent, 
Have  shaken,  as  a  reed,  my  thrilling  frame. 


MOZART'S 

Like  perfumes  on  the  wind, 

Which  none  may  stay  or  bind, 
The  beautiful  comes  floating  thro'  my  soul ; 

I  strive  with  yearnings  vain, 

The  spirit  to  detain 
Of  the  deep  harmonies  that  past  me  roll ! 

Therefore  disturbing  dreams 

Trouble  the  secret  streams 
And  founts  of  music  that  overflow  my  breast ; 

Something  far  more  divine 

Than  may  on  earth  be  mine, 
Haunts  my  worn  heart,  and  will  not  let  me  rest. 

Shall  T  then  fear  the  tone 

That  breathes  from  worlds  unknown  ? — 
Surely  these  feverish  aspirations  there 

Shall  grasp  their  full  desire, 

And  this  unsettled  fire, 
Burn  calmly,  brightly,  in  immortal  air. 


;ilO  MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES. 

One  more  then,  one  more  strain, 

To  earthly  joy  and  pain 
A  rich,  and  deep,  and  passionate  farewell ! 

I  pour  each  fervent  thought 

With  fear,  hope,  trembling,  fraught, 
Into  the  notes  that  o'er  mv  dust  shall  swell. 


THE    IMAGE    IN    LAVA.  311 


THE  IMAGE  IN  LAVA.* 


THOU  thing  of  years  departed  ! 

What  ages  have  gone  by, 
Since  here  the  mournful  seal  was  set 

By  love  and  agony ! 

Temple  and  tower  have  moulder'd, 

Empires  from  earth  have  pass'd, — 
Vnd  woman's  heart  hath  left  a  trace 
Those  glories  to  outlast ! 


*  The  impression  of  a  woman's  form,  with  an  infant  clasped  to  the 
bosom,  found  at,  the  uncovering  of  Herculaneum. 


MISCELLANEOUS   PIECES?. 

And  childhood's  fragile  image 

Thus  fearfully  enshrin'd, 
Survives  the  proud  memorials  rear'd 

By  conquerors  of  mankind. 

Babe  !  wert  thou  brightly  slumbering 
Upon  thy  mother's  breast, 

When  suddenly  the  fiery  tomb 
Shut  round  each  gentle  guest  1 

A.  strange  dark  fate  o'ertook  you, 
Fair  babe  and  loving  heart ! 

One  moment  of  a  thousand  pangs — 
Yet  better  than  to  part ! 

Haply  of  that  fond  bosom, 

On  ashes  here  impress'd, 
Thou  wert  the  only  treasure,  child ! 

Whereon  a  hope  might  rest. 


THE    IMAGE    IN    LAVA.  31 3 

Perchance  all  vainly  lavish'd, 

Its  other  love  had  been, 
And  where  it  trusted,  nought  remain'd 

But  thorns  on  which  to  lean. 

Far  better  then  to  perish, 

Thy  form  within  its  clasp, 
Than  live  and  lose  thee,  precious  one ! 

From  that  impassion'd  grasp. 

Oh !  I  could  pass  all  relics 

Left  by  the  pomps  of  old, 
To  gaze  on  this  rude  monument, 

Cast  in  affection's  mould. 

Love,  human  love !  what  art  thou '? 

Thy  print  upon  the  dust 
Outlives  the  cities  of  renown 

Wherein  the  mighty  trust ! 


27 


314  MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES. 

Immortal,  oh !  immortal 

Thou  art,  whose  earthly  glow 

Hath  given  these  ashes  holiness — 
It  must,  it  must  be  so  ! 


I  Iff'     LAST    WISH.  HI  5 


THE  LAST  WISH. 


"  Well  may  I  weep  to  leave  this  world— thee — all  these  beautiful 
woods,  and  plains,  and  hills." 

Lights  and  Shadows. 


Go  to  the  forest-shade, 

Seek  thou  the  well-known  glade, 

Where,  heavy  with  sweet  dew,  the  violets  lie, 
Gleaming  thro*  moss-tufts  deep, 
Like  dark  eyes  fill'd  with  sleep, 

And  bath'd  in  hues  of  summer's  midnight  sky. 

Bring  me  their  buds,  to  shed 
Around  my  dying  bed, 


31ISCELLANEOUS    PIECES. 

A  breath  of  May,  and  of  the  wood's  repose  ; 

For  I  in  sooth  depart, 

With  a  reluctant  heart, 
That  fain  would  linger  where  the  bright  sun  glows. 

Fain  would  I  stay  with  thee — 

Alas  !  this  may  not  be  ; 
Yet  bring  me  still  the  gifts  of  happier  hours  ! 

Go  where  the  fountain's  breast 

Catches  in  glassy  rest 
The  dim  green  light  that  pours  thro'  laurel  bowers. 

I  know  how  softly  bright, 
Steep'd  in  that  tender  light, 
The  water-lilies  tremble  there  ev'n  now ; 

% 

Go  to  the  pure  stream's  edge, 
And  from  its  vvhisp'ring  sedge, 
Bring  me  those  flowers  to  cool  my  fever'd  brow ! 


I  UK    LAST   WISH.  81 

Then,  as  in  Hope's  young  days, 

Track  thou  the  antique  maze 
Of  the  rich  garden  to  its  grassy  mound  ; 

There  is  a  lone  white  rose, 

Shedding,  in  sudden  snows, 
Its  faint  leaves  o'er  the  emerald  turf  around. 

Well  know'st  thou  that  fair  tree — 

A  murmur  of  the  bee 
Dwells  ever  in  the  honey'd  lime  above ; 

Bring  me  one  pearly  flower 

Of  all  its  clustering  shower — 
For  on  that  spot  we  first  reveal'd  our  love. 

Gather  one  woodbine  bough, 
Then,  from  the  lattice  low 
Of  the  bower'd  cottage  which  I  bade  thee  mark, 
When  by  the  hamlet  last, 
Thro'  dim  wood-lanes  we  pass'd, 

While  dews  were  glancing  to  the  glow-worm's  spark. 

27* 


:>1*  MISCELLANEOUS    TIECtS. 

Haste  !  to  my  pillow  bear 
Those  fragrant  things  and  fair  ; 

My  hand  no  more  may  bind  them  up  at  eve, 
Yet  shall  their  odour  soft 
One  bright  dream  round  me  waft 

Of  life,  youth,  summer, — all  thai  I  must  leave  ! 

And  oh  !  if  thou  would'st  ask 

Wherefore  thy  steps  I  task, 
The  grove,  the  Stream,  the  hamlet-vale  to  trace  ; 

'Tis  that  some  thought  of  me. 

When  I  am  gone,  may  be 
The  spirit  bound  to  each  familiar  place. 

I  bid  mine  image  dwell, 

(Oh !  break  not  thou  the  spell !) 
In  the  deep  wood,  and  by  the  fountain-side  ; 

Thou  must  not,  my  belov'd  ! 

Rove  where  we  two  have  rov'd, 
Forgetting  her  that  in  her  spring-time  died  ! 


FAIRY    FA' 


FAIRY  FAVOURS. 


Give  me  but 

Something  whereunto  I  may  bind  my  heart ; 
Something  to  love,  to  rest  upon,  to  clasp 
Affection's  tendrils  round. 


WOULDST  thou  wear  the  gift,  of  immortal  bloom  ? 
Wouldst  thou  smile  in  scorn  at  the  shadowy  tomb  ? 
Drink  of  this  cup  !  it  is  richly  fraught 
With  balm  from  the  gardens  of  Genii  brought ; 
Drink,  and  the  spoiler  shall  pass  thee  by, 
When  the  young  all  scattered  like  rose-leaves  lie. 

And  would  not  the  youth  of  my  soul  be  gone, 
If  the  lov'd  had  left  me,  one  by  one  ? 
Take  back  the  cup  that  may  never  bless, 
The  gift  that  would  make  me  brotherless ! 
How  should  I  live,  with  no  kindred  eye 
To  reflect  mine  immortality  ? 


OUS    PIEC 

Wouldst  thou  have  empire,  by  sign  or  spell. 
Over  the  mighty  in  air  that  dwell  1 
Wouldst  thou  call  the  spirits  of  shore  and  steep 
To  fetch  thee  jewels  from  ocean's  deep  1 
Wave  but  this  rod,  and  a  viewless  band 
Slaves  to  thy  will,  shall  around  thee  stand. 

And  would  not  fear,  at  my  coming  then, 
Hush  every  voice  in  the  homes  of  men  ? 
Would  not  bright  eyes  in  my  presence  quail  ? 
Young  cheeks  with  a  nameless  thrill  turn  pale  ? 
No  gift  be  mine  that  aside  would  turn 
The  human  love  for  whose  founts  I  yearn  ! 

Wouldst  thou  then  read  thro'  the  hearts  of  those 
Upon  whose  faith  thou  hast  sought  repose  ? 
Wear  this  rich  gem  !  it  is  charm'd  to  show 
When  a  change  comes  over  affection's  glow  : 
Look  on  its  flushing  or  fading  hue, 
And  learn  if  the  trusted  be  false  or  true  ! 


FAIUV    FAVOi  321 

Keep,  keep  the  gem,  that  I  still  may  trust, 
Tho'  my  heart's  wealth  be  but  pour'd  on  dust ! 
Let  not  a  doubt  in  my  soul  have  place, 
To  dim  the  light  of  a  lov'd  one's  face  ; 
Leave  to  the  earth  its  warm  sunny  smile — 
That  glory  would  pass  could  I  look  on  guile  ! 

Say  then  what  boon  of  my  power  shall  be 
Favour'd  of  spirits  !  pour'd  forth  on  thee  ? 
Thou  scornest  the  treasures  of  wave  and  mine. 
Thou  wilt  not  drink  of  the  cup  divine, 
Thou  art  fain  with  a  mortal's  lot  to  rest — 
Answer  me !  how  may  I  grace  it  best  ? 

Oh  !  give  me  no  sway  o'er  the  powers  unseen. 

But  a  human  heart  where  my  own  may  lean  ! 

A  friend,  one  tender  and  faithful  friend, 

"Whose  thoughts'  free  current  with  mine  may  blend, 

And  leaving  not  either  on  earth  alone, 

Bid  the  bright  calm  close  of  our  lives  be  one  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES, 


A  PARTING  SONG. 


"  Oh  !  mes  Amis,  rappelez  vous  quelquefois  mcs  vers ;  mon  ame 
y  est  empreinte."— CORINNE. 


WHEN  will  ye  think  of  me,  my  friends  ? 

When  will  ye  think  of  me  ? — - 
WThen  the  last  red  light,  the  farewell  of  day, 
From  the  rock  and  the  river  is  passing  away, 
When  the  air  with  a  deep'ning  hush  is  fraught, 
And  the  heart  grows  burden'd  with  tender  thought — 

Then  let  it  be  ! 


A   PAKT1JSG    SONG,  323 

When  will  ye  think  of  me,  kind  friends  ? 

When  will  ye  think  of  me  ? — 
When  the  rose  of  the  rich  midsummer  time 
Is  fill'd  with  the  hues  of  its  glorious  prime  ; 
When  ye  gather  its  bloom,  as  in  bright  hours  fled, 
From  the  walks  where  my  footsteps  no  more  may  tread ; 

Then  let  it  be  ! 

Wrhen  will  ye  think  of  me,  sweet  friends  ? 

When  will  ye  think  of  me  1 
When  the  sudden  tears  overflow  your  eye 
A.t  the  sound  of  some  olden  melody  ; 
When  ye  hear  the  voice  of  a  mountain  stream, 
When  ye  feel  the  charm  of  a  poet's  dream  ; 

Then  let  it  be  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES. 

Thus  let  my  memory  be  with  you,  friends  ! 

Thus  ever  think  of  me  ! 
Kindly  and  gently,  but  as  of  one 
For  whom  'tis  well  to  be  fled  and  gone  ; 
As  of  a  bird  from  a  chain  unbound, 
As  of  a  wanderer  whose  home  is  found  : 

So  let  it  be. 


THE 


. 


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